


Take Me To Church

by azulaahai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I think!? I'm afraid to use that tag bc I'm never sure where to draw the slow burn line), (minor imo but opinions differ), Angst, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I'm at it again folks, Jealousy, Modern AU, Modern Westeros AU, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, dorks bad at communicating, fake dating au, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-07-08 22:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: ”Ask him! What’s the harm? He can just hang out with you and dry your tears. We know you think he looks good in a tux…” Only Margaery could sound both suggestive and innocent at the same time.”That was one time! And it was Robb’s wedding! I was emotionally vulnerable!”Or: Receiving an invitation to the wedding between her former friend and her former boyfriend, Sansa Stark must ask her boss Jon Snow to be her fake date.





	1. Family Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Title, of course, from the Hozier song.
> 
> Haven't written fic in ages and I feel rusty af, this is rather messy but whoomp, here it is, a good old fake dating AU.

The wedding invitation arrives on a rainy Thursday.

”Hello?” Sansa calls out as she painstakingly closes her apartment door with her foot, carrying three bags of groceries. ”Arya? Marg?”

Thursday is family dinner night, and it’s Sansa’s turn to host this week. Margaery and Arya were sweet enough to offer to come help her prepare, and she can her them now in her living room, the sound of their chatter dulled by the smattering of rain against the windows. They must have let themselves in with Arya’s key. 

”Hi guys”, Sansa says as she passes by the sofa, where her sister and sister-in-law are sitting. 

”Hi, Sans”, they chant almost in unison, and Sansa rolls her eyes. Marg and Arya get along very well. It’s both endearing, irritating and terrifying. 

”Need some help with that?” Arya calls out after her as she enters the kitchen, putting down the bags on the counter with a relieved sigh.

”No, I’m fine”, she calls back.  
  
”We made tea.” It’s Margaery this time.

  
”Great, thanks.” Sansa pours herself a cup from the kettle, tying her rain-dampened hair up in a tight bun before going back to the living room, tea cup in hand. She stops in the doorway. It’s such a sweet picture, Arya and Margaery curled up on her sofa, and Sansa is struck by a wave of affection for them. Her sisters. Her sentimentality makes it take her a moment to notice how strange they’re acting; both Arya and Margaery regard her with awkward expressions, and they’re unusually quiet.

”What?” Sansa says, sipping her tea. ”What’s the matter, weirdos?”

They look at her sheepishly from the sofa, before exchanging a cryptic glance. Neither of them responds.

”One of you better pipe up”, Sansa warns, lowering her cup, her eyes narrowing. ”If you fucking broke something in my apartment again …”

”We didn’t break anything”, Margaery assures her, still not yielding any additional information.

”But something of yours might still be broken very soon”, Arya mutters, causing Margaery to elbow her in the side.

”I swear to god, if none of you tell me what -”

”Okay, okay!” Arya finally says. ”Uhm … This came for you. In the mail.” Arya bends down and picks up what seems to be a card of some sort from the floor, handing it to Sansa. Reading what it says, Sansa can physically feel herself grow pale. She hates herself for reacting, but fuck if the words don’t hit her like a punch.

_You are invited to the wedding between Myranda Royce and Harry Hardyng …_

Sansa swallows. One, two, three times. She stares at the card, not wanting to meet Arya’s or Margaery’s eyes, though she can feel them upon her. 

”You opened it?” she whispers.

”It was my fault”, Margaery immediately says. ”I’d … well, we saw it was a wedding invitation, and I had sort of heard some rumors, so I kind of … we kind of knew what … I’m sorry. Did we overstep?”

Sansa’s vision is blurred and she blinks. She can’t fucking cry over Harry Hardyng. That’s very ’last year’ of her.

”It’s alright. It’s not a big deal. I’m not going.” Sansa’s tone is clear and her voice stable. She definitely does not at all feel like crying anymore. Nah. Absolutely not.

”Of course you are going, you fucking idiot!” Arya exclaims, unapologetically stuffing some of Sansa’s fancy, treat-yourself-you’re-on-your-period chocolate that Sansa hadn’t realised that Arya had taken out of the cupboard into her mouth. Margaery unsurprisingly speaks up in agreement with Arya.

”Totally, Sans. It’s the _perfect_ opportunity to show everyone how you’re the bigger person and completely cool and over the situation.” Arya nods at that and hands Marg a piece of chocolate, that Marg accepts. Sansa is going to kill them. But later. When her head stops spinning and she doesn’t feel like she just got punched. _The wedding between Myranda Royce and Harry Hardyng …_

It takes her a moment to gather herself enough to reply in a nonchalant tone.

”Being obviously single at the wedding of my former friend and my former boyfriend? Thanks, but no thanks.” Sansa suddenly wants comfort, wants hugs and gentleness. She wishes at least one of them would have gone with the ’poor you, I’ll do anything to console you’ approach rather than this ’we’ll give you bad advice’ circus.

”Ask someone to go with you!” says Margaery, excitement glimmering in her doe eyes, her earlier ashamed tone now long gone. ”Think about it. How often do you have such an amazing opportunity to not only show two people who have fucked you over that you’re doing so much better without them, but also by doing so somewhat ruin what is supposed to be the happiest day of their life?”

”But I’m not doing so much better without them”, Sansa says in a low voice. _Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic_ , chants an unhelpful voice in the back of her head. ”And you know I’m not the revenge type, really. Plus, even if I went with a date - in _theory!_ ” she adds as Arya and Marg begin cheering in the sofa, ”I’d be an emotional wreck all weekend. I couldn’t make someone come be my date for a boring ass wedding and watch me slowly die inside for two days.”

”Oh my god”, says Margaery, clearly undeterred by Sansa’s somber speech, practically bouncing in the sofa, ”you should ask Jon!”

Arya’s eyes go wide and a wicked grin spreads across her face. Sansa can already tell she is screwed. 

”Margaery Tyrell. You are a motherfucking genius!” Arya all but yells.

”I can’t ask Jon!” Sansa says with desparation in her voice, panic rising within her at the mere thought. God. The idea of attending this wedding is already making her physically sick. To go with Jon would basically be emotional suicide. They might as well take her to the insane asylum straight away. Or the morgue.

”Why not?” Marg says. ”He’s an appropriate age, he’s cute as hell, you know him well so it won’t be weird, we know he’s a good guy so he could just do it as a favor, a platonic thing …”

”He’s my _boss_ , Marg.”

”Oh please!” Arya chimes in. ”He’s a café owner and you manage his café. It’s not really as risqué as you make it sound.”

”I wasn’t making it sound risqué!” Sansa squeaks. She acutely regrets getting out of bed this morning. Or at all, ever.

”Plus, we’ve known him for years before he was your boss. It’s not even weird”, Arya says, sounding smug.

”Ask him! What’s the harm? He can just hang out with you and dry your tears. We know you think he looks good in a tux…” Only Margaery could sound both suggestive and innocent at the same time.

”That was one time! And it was Robb’s wedding! I was emotionally vulnerable!” Sansa protests.  


”We did have a great wedding”, Marg says with a soft sigh.

”Stop talking about your fucking wedding”, Arya groans from the sofa, burrying her head in one of Sansa’s embroidered pillows. ”We know you had the best wedding and all that. We were there, Marg. You married our fucking brother. It was awesome. We get it.”

”Thanks, Arya”, Sansa says pointedly. ”Maybe we should stop talking about weddings altogether.”

”Not until you agree to take Jon to this one!” Arya says, looking up at her again. ”It’s the perfect plan, Sans.”

”Perfect”, Margs agrees. They’re scary as hell when they gang up on her, Sansa has to admit. She has a terrible feeling that they planned this, that this ’oh, take Jon as your date!’ idea wasn’t as spontaneous as was presented.

It’s as if she’s in a nightmare. Or in hell. _Hey, guess what? Harry’s getting married! Yeah, your ex boyfriend who is somehow_ still _a sensitive subject for you! Who is he marrying you ask? Right, that would be your former friend who’s been dating him for, like, half the amount of time that you dated him for! And oh, did I forget to mention? You’ll now be pressured into going to the wedding with your inexplicably attractive boss as your date! Have fun, asshat!_

”I’ll think about it”, Sansa says, mainly to buy herself some time. 

”You can ask him tonight”, Arya says innocently.

”I can ask him _when_ now?”

”He’s coming tonight, didn’t you hear?” Margaery says, in a tone far too blasé to be authentic. ”Robb invited him.”

”To _family dinner_? In _my apartment?_ ”

”Relax! He’s basically part of the family”, Arya says, indignant. ”Plus, it’s not like we’re strict on the ’just Starks’ rule. Margaery’s here, after all -”

”Hey, I married Robb, for fucks sake! I’m part of this family by _law.”_

_”_ \- and Gendry’s coming, so I don’t see what’s the big.”

”Gendry’s coming!?” Sansa shrieks.

* *

Sansa splashes some cold water in her face, meeting her own gaze in the bathroom mirror. She looks tired, but not heartbroken. Rather well, considering the current circumstances - ready to greet the unexpected amount of guests that is going to be showing up any minute now. She’s taken respite in the bathroom for a few blissful minutes of solitude.

Margaery and Arya have been unusually kind to her all day after the wedding date discussion. Out of care for her feelings or out of guilt for pressuring Sansa earlier, Sansa can’t tell, but it’s been rather welcome in her fragile state. Arya even gave her a long, warm hug before the cooking frenzy began, and that’s rather rare.

Then again, Sansa knows how worried they all were for her during the Harry Hardyng circus. It had been her first real, grown up heartbreak, Harry telling her ’this wasn’t working anymore’ after two years together, and tears and grief had followed. She’d moved past that after a couple of months, but still, Harry had been the type of ex that you’re not quite finished with, the kind who’s still in the back of your mind, the kind you secretly harbor hopes of reunion for. It wasn’t until Myranda Royce, her friend from work, told Sansa she ’wanted to talk to her about something’, and revealed that she and Harry had started dating, that Sansa realized just how much she had counted on one day getting back together with Harry, and the blow was a hard one. The revelation unfortunately coincided with the ten year anniversary of her parents’ deaths, and the emotional toll sent Sansa rather far down a black hole. She quit her job, andhad trouble finding a new one. 

If Jon Snow hadn’t offered her a manager position in his café, Sansa isn’t sure where she’d be. He wasn’t perhaps her knight in shining armor, but that first day she was so utterly grateful to have him just be her boss in a black apron, showing her how the espresso machine worked. 

So Margaery and Arya’s suggestion of Jon Snow being the one to save her from the curse of Harry Hardyng once and for all by accompanying her to his - barf - wedding was more poetic than they perhaps realised. Full circle, in a way. Jon saved Sansa once from the Harry Hardyng hole, and he might save her once more. She rolls her eyes at herself in the mirror. It’s a crazy idea, made up by crazy people, she reminds herself. But she can’t stop herself from picturing how it would be, pulling up to the wedding with Jon Snow in tow, not sitting by herself amidst strangers pathetically fighting back tears over her lost future with Harry fucking Hardyng, but rather on a fun weekend getaway with her (fake, but nobody needs to know that) boyfriend. 

Plus, she knows something that Arya and Margaery doesn’t; Harry was always a little intimidated by Jon. Got jealous when he was around. It’s petty and juvenile and stupid and probably completely inaccurate, but some part of Sansa is convinced that some part of Harry would still _hate_ to see her dating Jon Snow of all people.

Her embarrassing line of thought is broken by the sound of the doorbell.

They’re here.

* * *

”Uhm, Jon?” Sansa says, clearing her throat.

They’re by themselves in the hallway after dinner, and Sansa has a sneaking suspicion that Arya and Margaery might have planned it that way. Arya and Gendry loudly joking with Robb in the kitchen while doing the dishes, Margaery entertaining Bran and Rickon in the living room, Sansa is alone in saying goodbye to Jon in the hallway. Dinner was a success, to her surprise; she’s tired, but not in an unpleasant way. Today’s not been as bad as it could have been. Family dinner nights are always nice, and she needed one today. Sansa’s had a glass or two of wine which might be impacting her decision making, but she’s really about to ask her boss something completely unprofessional. 

”Yeah?” Jon looks at her with piercing grey eyes, and Sansa feels herself blush. It’s strange - even with him and Robb being thick as thieves since kindergarten, even with him having been around her forever, even having worked for him for almost a year, Sansa still feels a little unsettled being alone with Jon. Not in a creepy sense - but he’s just never been as open and familial with her as he is with the rest of her siblings, they’ve never been as comfortable around each other. Suddenly, to suggest to Jon Snow that they spend intimate one on one time together seems like a rather bad idea. Sansa swallows. It feels too late to back out now. 

”Would you consider doing me a huge favor?” Hm. It sounds rather shady when she says it like that. Like the ’favor’ she’s about to ask is that he store a ton of cocaine for her for a while.

”I’d consider it”, he says, and his eyes sparkle with amusement. ”What’s -”

He’s cut off by Robb entering the hallway, asking Jon if he wants to take some leftovers home with him. For a second, Sansa could swear Jon’s eyes linger on her even as he answers Robb, but the moment passes quickly and afterwards she’s sure she imagined it. When Robb returns to the kitchen to indeed fetch Jon some leftovers, Jon looks rather confused when Sansa remains silent.

”You were saying?”, he says, in that low, gentle tone of his.

”I … nevermind”, she says, shooting him what feels like a weird smile as Robb once more steps into the room. Saved by the bell, or rather, the brother. Yet she feels strangely disappointed. ”We’ll talk tomorrow, perhaps.”

”Right, tomorrow.” They do café paperwork for an hour or two on Fridays. ”You’re on, Stark.”

As Jon says his goodbyes in the living room, as he gives Sansa a short side hug while mumbling something about her ’delicious dinner’ in her ear, sending a pleasant shiver up her spine that Sansa chooses to surpress and ignore and lock away in a cupboard, as he steps out the door, as she’s left alone with a somewhat confused-looking Robb in the hallway, that one word still echoes around her head.

_Tomorrow_.


	2. Operation Wedding Crashers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa speaks to Jon. It doesn't quite go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for the lovely response to the first chapter! ❤ I appreciate every single comment.
> 
> Secondly, this fast of an update is a one time thing probably lmao, but I was on some sort of roll. This might also mean that this chapter is all over the place. I've barely edited it.
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoy!

MARGAERY (to the ’Stark sisters’ group chat) 10.52

thanks for dinner last night assholes xx

robb ate so much pasta that he passed out on the couch the minute we got home

any luck with operation wedding crashers sans???

SANSA 11.03

please don’t call it that.

ARYA 11.07

please always and forever call it that

SANSA 11.14

I hate you guys

and no, no ’””””””””””luck””””””””””””. waiting for the right moment

MARGAERY 11.17

(typing …)

ARYA 11.17

So there IS going to BE a RIGHT moment!?!?!?!?!?

MARGAERY 11.18

fuck yeah! please keep us informed! oml! 

If you were to walk by Castle Black Café that Friday morning, you might, if you glance in through the windows, see the red-haired woman behind the counter act rather strangely. She would appear to be mumbling something to herself, almost as if rehearsing a speech.

Sansa unnecessarily wipes the counter for, like, the fifth time that day, internally going over her talking points again. 

_Step 1. Say ’Hi Jon, how are you?’ Have a normal and not at all loaded or awkward conversation!_

_Step 2. (pause for Jon to engage in said conversation)_

_Step 3. ’Oh and hey, by the way, would you be part of my elaborate revenge plot?’_

Smooth.

It’s a rather quiet day, the beginning of summer marking a decrease in her customers. A significant part of the Wintertown residents go south when summer comes and they get off work. The less-busy-than-usual day has, unfortunately, allowed Sansa plenty of time to think.

It’s rather crazy of her to be doing this. Not just fun, wohooo, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-crazy. Potentially genuinely psychologically questionable. If she were still seeing her therapist, she’s pretty sure he would advise against this. This plan is a unique combination of living in the past and fucking up the present. But Sansa has slept on it, the wedding invitation looming threateningly on her kitchen counter as she did so.

She’s begun to hold on to the crazy, over-the-top attempt at closure the plan would offer her.

And she is really fucking doing this.

* *

The bell on the door rings to announce Jon’s arrival, and nerves begin flaring in Sansa’s stomach. She’s in the kitchen, and she can hear his steps approaching.

”Stark?” he calls out in greeting as he reaches the doorway. He calls her that a lot. When she was younger, she found it almost hurtful, just another way to keep the distance between them, to mark her as different from her siblings to him. Now, she finds it rather endearing; she’s come to relish the way he says ’Stark’, gravelly and hoarsely and still somehow like music. The thought is embarrassingly romantic, and Sansa gives a little shake of her head to get rid of it.

”Hey”, she says lamely. Jon’s wearing a grey t-shirt and black jeans, his outfit of choice. Sansa barely ever sees him in something else. That’s probably the only reason for her being … affected by that damn tux at Robb and Marg’s wedding. ”Coffee?”

”Yes, thank you.” Somewhat irrationally annoyed at his formal politeness, Sansa pours him a cup, not having to ask how he likes it. Jon Snow drinks his coffee black, because of course he does. She hands him the cup, and grabs her own herbal tea, and in silence, they walk into the small office beside the kitchen. They reach the doorway side by side, and have an awkward little ’you go first’, ’no, _you_ go first’ dance. Sansa spills a drop tea on her blouse. It’s terribly awkward. _Step 1 failed._

Once they finally sit down on opposite sides of the desk, Sansa is very, very close to backing out of this stupid, stupid plan made up by stupid, stupid family members. 

”Thanks for yesterday, by the way”, he says as he starts the computer, and Sansa takes a sip of tea, trying to relax. ”For letting me crash family dinner. And for the food. It was great. I’ll probably live on those leftovers for like a week.”

”Marg said Robb passed out on the couch when they got home. Pasta overload.”

”He always does that.”

They fall quiet again, but it’s a more amicable silence, and some of the tension fades from Sansa’s shoulders. Jon begins digging through his bag, finding the black case for his glasses. He doesn’t wear them a lot, but on paperwork day they without fail come out and ornament his nose. Sansa swallows. 

How can she breach this strange, strange subject?

”Was there something you wanted to talk to me about, Stark?” Jon says, and now he’s regarding her with grey eyes. She freezes at the sense that he’s just read her mind - but then she remembers her embarrassing debacle last night in the hallway.

”Oh, that.” She pauses for a few seconds, looking down at the floor. Bites her lip. 

”I think you wanted to ask me a favor.” His tone is impossible to decipher, and she doesn’t dare to look at him to read his facial expression.

”Yeah”, she says, finally deciding that stalling will only prolong both of their suffering. ”Jon, I … Do you remember Harry Hardyng?”

”Yeah? What about him?” She’s still too nervous to look at him, but she can hear him lean forward in his chair. ”Did you kill him and put him in the café freezer? Because as much as I support you in that murder, I suggest you use your own freezer for that.”

It is an uncharacteristically lengthy response for a man not usually of many words. Sansa is beginning to suspect she is freaking him out a little with her strange behavior. She forces herself to look up and meet his gaze, and immediately regrets it. If she was nervous before, it’s nothing compared to the anxious mess she’s reduced to when confronted with Jon’s eyes. 

”He’s getting married.” She straightens her back as a look of confusion clouds his gaze. 

”Who? Harry fucking Hardyng?” he says as an expression of an absurd combination of outrage and fascination spreads across his features, almost making Sansa laugh. Almost.

”Harry fucking Hardyng”, she confirms.

”No way. To whom?” Jon seems genuinely flabbergasted. 

”Myranda, you know? My, erhm, friend from work. Brown hair, a memorable laugh?” Sansa crosses her legs and then uncrosses them as she speaks.

”God. Are you okay?” There’s true concern in his voice and Sansa’s taken aback by his kindness. 

”Yeah, I’m … it was a bit of a shock, really, but I’m fine now.” She braces herself and makes eye contact again. He carries of the ’gently worried’ look very well, Sansa is less-than-pleased to report.

”When did you find out?” he says, and she is glad of the rational approach. He wants the facts.

”I got the invitation yesterday, actually.” She shrugs. He has raised his cup to take a sip of coffee, but lowers it now with slightly widened eyes.

”Wow. Shit. Are you … I mean, are you gonna go?” He looks hesitant to be asking, and Sansa understands his discomfort. They don’t usually speak so openly with one another.

”I don’t know. I mean … that’s actually …” How hard can this _be_? Her tongue has difficulty forming words. ”I … feel like I couldn’t go. Alone. By myself. That would be … awful. But I was wondering if maybe … if maybe you would … go with me?”

A terrifying pause. She’s back to staring at the floor, and for each second that passes by in silence, a small part of her dies. _Fuck_.

”I completely understand if that is … I mean if that feels weird or awkward, and we can totally forget I ever even asked”, she blurts out, suddenly unable to stop her own word flow. ”It’s a crazy idea and I know it sounds very stupid but I … ”

”Wait. Let me get this straight.” Jon puts down his coffee cup on the desk, and when she finally dares a glance at him, he looks so utterly, completely shellshocked that she quickly has to look away again. ”You … are asking me to go to Harry fucking Hardyngs wedding with you? As your … date?”

”It wouldn’t be a real date!” she exclaims in a high-pitched voice, mortified at his tone when asking the question, as if the mere idea of being her _date_ filled him with horror. ”Just as like … a platonic thing, like a fun, pretend thing. Like a … date, but like a fake date. Like a … ’pretend to be my boyfriend’ thing.” She tries to smile. It fails spectacularly, ending up being a strange grimace that leaves him even more horrified-looking than before, if that is even possible.

”You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend at Hardyng’s wedding?”

”I told you it was a stupid idea. Just, we can forget it, I just - Arya and Marg had this crazy idea that I _had_ to go and bring a cute fake date and show Harry how great I was doing and they thought I should ask -”She is rambling, to her horror.

” _Arya_ put you up to this!?”

”- we really could just, bury this conversation in a deep, deep, very not shallow grave and not ever talk about this again -”

” _Sansa_ ”, he says, in a low voice filled with both frustration and amusement, and Sansa is so surprised at hearing him say her first name that she abruptly falls silent. Jon stares at her as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle, grey eyes regarding her in assessment.”Do you genuinely want to do this? Me be your … ’cute fake date’?” She cringes at his quoting of her. 

”Yeah.” The answer slips out of her before she’s even had time to reflect on it. Strange. ”If you can bear sitting beside me as I silently sob into Harry Hardyng’s wedding napkins for a weekend, and if you’re not totally weirded out, I would … want you to do this.” He huffs something that is almost a laugh at that.

”But … why?” he asks, and now he’s concerned again. ”Why would you want to go to this fucking wedding?”

”I don’t …” She grabbed the armrest of the chair, frustrated. How could she explain her pathetic and messy emotions to Jon Snow? ”This whole Harry Hardyng debacle has just been such a big thing for me. Too big of a thing. Like he’s become this insanely significant figure and had such an impact on me these years … and Myranda, too … and I just, I’m sick of it, you know? I want to take my power back. I want to waltz into their wedding and have a great time and then say ’so long, suckers, see you never’ and waltz right fucking out of their lives for all eternity. And never wonder if they ever talk about me as this sad little figure who got trampled in the stampede of their relationship, you know? I mean, when Arya and Marg first suggested this, I thought it was ridiculous, don’t get me wrong. And I’m sure it’ll be … painful, I guess, and awkward, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like I have to go, right? They invited me and I can’t _not_ go. And I’d much rather not go by myself.”

He regards her intently during her whole speech, his grey eyes never leaving her, looking as if he’s trying to figure out a riddle. Having stopped speaking, she lets out a long, shaky breath. He clears his throat.

”I understand, Stark”, he says, sounding almost brusque, and Sansa’s heart sinks at his tone and lack of encouragement. _He must think I’m being crazy._ ”Isn’t there someone else you could ask?”

_Oh_. His implied rejection hits her harder than she anticipated. _Fuck_. She scrambles for something, anything to say to save face. 

”Uhm, yeah, totally! Maybe. I mean, I haven’t really thought about it. Arya and Marg just said …”

”You know you shouldn’t listen to Arya and Marg.” She can’t tell if he’s teasing her or being serious,but either way, she takes offense at his lecturing tone.

”I know. And it’s fine. Like I said, we can forget about it.” She’s stubbornly staring at the floor again, feeling like a scolded child. What the fuck was she thinking asking him this?

”Sansa?” Jon says from opposite her, his voice gentler again, and when she looks back up at him there’s slight concern in his eyes once more. ”I’ll think about it. I will.”

Of all the outcomes of this conversation she anticipated, she had somehow never counted on him wanting to take some time to consider it. She has an awful feeling that he’s only doing so now to be nice, to let her down easy, to placate the crazy pathetic stalker desperate to impress her soon-to-be-married ex. 

Sansa manages to muster a forced smile at Jon.

”Sounds good. Take your time.”

He doesn’t return her smile, and turns back to the computer.

Sansa takes another sip of her tea, and finds that it has gone cold.

Great.

* *

SANSA (to the ’Stark sisters’ group chat) 16.47

operation wedding crashers has officially crashed and burned

remind me never to ever follow any of your advice ever again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and keep the updates coming, thanks again for reading! ❤


	3. Friday Nights, Neon Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa spends some time on Margaery's sofa. Jon confronts Arya.
> 
> Introducing Jon's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much for all of your comments! I know I suck at replying but they really do mean a lot to me. Hope you enjoy this chapter ♥

”It was awful”, Sansa whimpers. 

She’s lying on her stomach on the flashy black leather sofa that Margaery bought when she first moved in with Robb. Sansa went straight to their house from work, after the most intensely awkward paper work session of her life had come to an embarrassing end. The goodbye with Jon was stiff, she felt a lot like dying, and here she is now and she can’t help but picture it all over again, unwelcome recollections of her conversation with Jon nestling their way into her mind. ” _Awful_!”

”Oh, sweetie”, Margaery says, with that soft, soft voice of hers that could placate anyone, ”I’m so sorry.”

”You should be”, Sansa mutters, burying her face in one of Marg’s pillows. The silky fabric is soft against her skin.

”I’m sure it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

”You’re right. It was worse.”

”I’m proud of you for even asking him”, Margaery says, and despite Marg’s best efforts to stifle it, Sansa can hear her smile. Well, at least _someone_ is amused. ”I honestly didn’t think you would.”

”Well! I did, and I have sent both my professional and personal life down the drain in one genius move.”  
  
”If your entire personal life was dependent on Jon saying yes to our mad little wedding scheme, then that’s a whole different issue”, Marg says, and Sansa begins kicking her feet into the sofa like a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. ”And as for your professional life … well, I hate to bring this up right _now_ but wasn’t it maybe time to reconsider that anyway?”

Sansa abruptly stops kicking, looking up from her pillow with a shocked look on her face. She can’t believe Marg would use her post-Snow mental breakdown to bring this load back up again. Margaery meets her eyes and must be able to sense her feeling of betrayal, quickly moving to diffuse the tension.

  
”I’m sorry”, Marg says again. ”We can talk about this later, but …. did you look at the stuff I emailed you about?”

Marg has been innocently emailing Sansa lots of things recently, links and brochures to everything from online courses and university websites to writers retreats and ads looking for freelance workers. (How Marg has time to research all this while working, Sansa has no idea.) Her family haswith varying degrees of subtlety tried to get Sansa back on the path to becoming a writer ever since she gave up a few years back, after one too many rejection letters and poorly paid freelance jobs, and took that soul-sucking position at the insurance company. Everyone had laid off a bit during the time she spent in the Harry Hardyng hole, but Sansa knows that when she handed in her notice after learning about Harry and Myranda, her friends and family were quietly hoping she’d return to writing. 

No one had ever even implied it, but she’d had the sense that they were all a little disappointed when she didn’t attempt to pursue writing again, instead applying for office jobs, until finally accepting Jon’s café job offer. Now they seem to be back at it again, trying to get her back to old ways. Becoming a writer has been Sansa’s dream since she was young and read romance novels under the covers when her parents thought she was sleeping, but she’s older now, and has bills to pay and an everyday life to lead and dreams don’t always come true, do they?

  
”Café manager is a very respectable position, Marg”, Sansa says through gritted teeth.

”I know it is”, replies her sister-in-law, throwing her hands in the air. ”But it’s not what you’ve always wanted to do”, she adds more quietly, and Sansa frustratedly grasps the pillow till her knuckles whiten. And she thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

”I’m sorry”, Sansa says loudly, the dramatic effect somewhat dulled due to the fact that her words are muffled by the pillow, ”can we get back to talking about how my life is in shambles and that I’m never going to ever be okay again?”

Margaery laughs, and finally obliges.

When Robb comes home an hour and a half later, Margaery and Sansa have gone over Sansa’s conversation with Jon in excruciating detail. When Sansa got to the part of Jon staring worriedly at her while saying he’d ’think about it’, Marg let out an accusatory gasp.

  
”So he didn’t turn you down!?”

”Well …” Sansa began.

”He said he’d _think about it?_ ”

”Yes, but that clearly means ’I don’t want to do it and I think you’re mildly insane, and I have to say something nice so you don’t pull a knife on me or something’.”

”Why the hell would it mean that?” Marg said, but then Robb came home and Sansa stared at her, silently communicating that if her brother was informed of any part of this, there would be hell to pay. Now Robb is sitting beside Sansa in the couch, looking quizzically at his wife, seeming to ask what the hell is going on. Marg shakes her head dismissively. Good.

”Are you staying for dinner, Sans?” Robb says, when it finally becomes clear to him that neither his sister nor his wife is going to explain the awkward tension in the room, much less Sansa’s presence in the first place.

Sansa sits up at the question, physically feeling how messy her hair is. The idea of third-wheeling her brother tonight is mighty unappealing, but going home to an empty apartment with nothing better to do than to remember the way Jon Snow said _Isn’t there someone else you could ask?_ isn’t all that tempting either. The fact that these are her two options on a Friday night is beyond sad.

”Where’s Rickon?” she asks, hoping her younger brother might be home to make her feel less pathetic. Hanging out with a married couple, no matter how much you like them, gets rather tedious. She feels for her youngest brother, who lives with Margaery and Robb full time.

”He was going to a party”, says Marg, rolling her eyes, but Sansa can sense the smile behind it. 

Great. Her baby brother has plans, and Sansa is thrown to the married, annoyingly nice wolves.

”He has curfew, though, if you stay you might get to yell at him for being late”, Robb says, making Sansa groan and let herself fall back down on the sofa, her head buried right back into the pillow. Is this what her life has come to?

”Stay”, Margaery says gently. 

Sansa hesitates.

”We’ll get takeout”, Robb offers, with a sibling’s ability to cut right to the chase.

Well, that settles it then.

* *

Jon pulls up to the diner furious.

His emotions have been building from utter shock to mild annoyance to red hot rage ever since his … whatever that was with Sansa, and he’s pissed off as he turns the engine off, sitting in silence.

_”Arya and Marg had this crazy idea …”_

He grips the steering wheel hard, takes a deep breath, and gets out of the car. The parking lot lies deserted, not a soul in sight. It’s a gentle, early summer night, unusually warm, and Jon’s foul mood seems unsuited for the mild breeze and gentle twilight around him. He resolutely stalks towards the diner, guided by the light coming from large windows and the huge, hideous blue neon sign. _Harrenhall Diner._ They’ve been trying to get Hot Pie to rethink that sign for years, to no avail. No wonder there are rumors this place is haunted.

Jon whips open the door. Thankfully, the diner is almost empty, apart from one family and a young couple. Arya, who comes out of the kitchen at the sound of the door, in those ugly grey aprons Hot Pie makes his employees wear, makes eye contact with Jon and a grin spreads across her face. She seems completely unbothered by his obvious anger as she calls out ”Hot Pie, I’m taking five!” to the kitchen, smiles apologetically at the customers and gestures for Jon to follow her outside.

She stops out in the parking lot and stares at him with eyebrows raised, arms crossed and a god-awfully annoying smirk tugging at her lips. Arya doesn’t say anything, seeming content to wait him out as he stares at her with narrowed eyes.

”Does this, by any chance”, she says, finally, losing patience, ”have anything to do with my sister?”

”What the fuck do you think”, Jon hisses, and to his great frustration Arya seems undeterred by his harshness, that smirk still on display. He can’t remember ever being this angry with Arya - he’s always had a soft spot for her, they’ve practically been brother and sister. But, as he’s come to understand by spending years and years amongst the Starks, brothers and sisters fight, sometimes brutally.

”Well, judging by your reaction, I’m going to take a leap of faith here and guess that it probably _has_ something to with Sansa.” Her cheerful sarcasm just serves to anger him further, and he begins pacing back and forth in the parking lot, feeling like a maniac.

”Was it your idea?”

”Was _what_ my idea?”

”Don’t play dumb.”

”Did I maybe suggest that Sansa should ask you to go to Hardyng’s wedding with her?” They both cringe at the mention of Hardyng’s name, and Jon reluctantly feels some of his rage fade at the solidary display. ”Yeah, I did. You’re welcome.”

Arya is far calmer about this than he expected, and it throws him off. He stops pacing, instead gazing out over the near-empty parking lot, lit by that damn neon light.

”And did you and _Margaery_ make this plan?” he says slowly, looking at her. To Jon’s satisfaction, she looks a little ashamed at that, and her tone grows more defensive.

”Marg heard about the wedding and we were both worried it would cause another Sansa spiral, you know? We thought, you know, it would maybe be good for her to go. To get closure, and stuff. But we knew she wouldn’t go alone … ”

”So you thought ’oh, who do we know who is single and pathetic enough to do this?’” He runs a hand through his hair.

”No, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and maybe give you a helpful nudge in Sansa’s direction while at the same time make Harry Hardyng suffer. Two things which I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” Arya shrugs, and Jon lets out a sigh. How can she be so casual about this?

”I …” A mortifying thought strikes him. ”Did you .. tell Margaery?” He feels pathetic even asking the question, and judging by Arya’s widened grin, she is amused by the middle school vibe of the whole situation.

”No offense, loser, but I didn’t really have to. You’re not _that_ subtle. I think we’ve all figured out that you wouldn’t mind going to a wedding with Sansa. And that you’d prefer it to be yours and Sansa’s own wedding.”

Oh god. The thought is so humiliating he has to swallow bile rising in his throat.

”Does … does _Sansa_ know?” His voice is more high-pitched than usual, and Arya looks at him with a mixture of amusement and concern.

”You know what? I don’t think she does. That’s the weird part.”

”Oh.” Relief shoots through him. The thought of Sansa being aware of even a tenth of his pathetic pining makes him suicidal. But then fear strikes again and he asks, ”Does Robb?”

”I don’t know, dude. I mean, no offense again, but he probably suspects.”

Jon lets out a groan and closes his eyes, clenching his jaw.

”But isn’t it good?” Arya says, her voice upbeat. ”I mean … I maybe should have mentioned this to you beforehand …”

”You think!?” Jon huffs.

”… but you have an opportunity to get your shit together now! Go to Hardyng’s fucking wedding, poison the wedding cake or something for me, then dry Sansa’s tears and, I don’t know, tell her you want to have children with her.”

He snorts. Silence, for a few seconds.

”She was very clear it was a platonic thing”, he says, in a low voice. He’s thankful for the dim light as he feels Arya’s eyes on him.

”Well”, Arya says after a long pause. ”It’s still a chance to hang out just the two of you, right? And to do her a favor, and show how marvelous you are under pressure. And Sansa asked you. I mean, sure, Marg and I gave her the idea, but she asked you the _day after_ we suggested it. It doesn’t seem like she doesn’t want to spent time with you.” It’s an unusually gentle approach for Arya, and Jon is taken aback. 

”And if you can piss Harry Hardyng off even one tiny little bit, it will have been worth it”, Arya adds, now more true to form.

They stare at each other quietly for a moment.

”You really think I should do it?” he asks, feeling pathetic again.

”Duh? I came up with this, remember?” she grins. ”You’ll have fun. It’ll be great. Just tell her you changed your mind and that you’d absolutely _love_ to go. It would be _enchanting_ , wouldn’t it?” she says mockingly.

”I never actually said no”, he admits. ”I told her I’d think about it.” Arya rolls her eyes.

  
”Well, knowing Sansa and the weird thing about rejection she has, she’s probably already planning to quit her job and move to the Lands of Always Winter, so I’d write to her fast, if I were you.”

Jon frowns at the thought of Sansa being hurt by his answer to her request. To him, she had almost seemed relieved when they had moved on to paperwork after the awkward conversation; she had appeared to relish the change of subject.

”I gotta get back to work”, Arya says, and Jon is brought back to reality. ”You can thank me for this amazing favor later.” She begins walking towards the door of the diner, but calls back to him over her shoulder. ”All I ask in return is Harry Hardyng’s head. And that you and Sansa name your firstborn after me.”

He looks around, mortified, but no one is around to have heard her.

”Arya?” he calls.

She turns in the doorway.

”You look ridiculous in that apron.”

”Says the man who wears the same outfit everyday.” He can see the mischievous glitter in her eyes even from here. 

”Sorry I was so pissed off.”

”Sorry I didn’t talk to you before.” 

Jon smiles at Arya.

”Tell Hot Pie I said hi.”

She returns his smile and with a wave and a ”see you ’round, Snow”, she disappears back into the diner.

Jon is left alone outside, bathing in blue neon light. 

* *

Sansa is curled up in an armchair in Robb and Marg’s living room, letting them have the sofa. She’s shoving unholy amounts of popcorn in her mouth, pretending not to notice Robb’s hand on Marg’s thigh. A movie is playing, some sort of pseudo-intellectual drama that she has trouble focusing on, and her thoughts keep drifting to … _no. Don’t think about that._ _Think about popcorn and think about when Rickon is coming home and think about this movie character who is now yelling at his wife for a reason that you must have missed._

Her phone buzzes. Thankful for the distraction, she checks the text immediately, the screen seeming blindingly bright in the darkness of the room. When she reads the name of the sender, her heart begins to beat faster.

”Marg?”

Margaery turns to look at her, and upon seeing her expression, pauses the movie.

”What’s the matter? What happened?”

Sansa holds out the phone, and Marg reads the message. When she’s done, she lets out something that has to be a victory howl, startling Robb at her side.

”Uhm”, says Robb, looking at Sansa. ”Does anyone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

Sansa ignores him, focused on an unexpected warmth rising in her stomach. She reads the message again, somehow convinced she’s misunderstood something, but the words on the screen are the same the second time she reads them.

JON 22.01

Fuck Harry Hardyng. Let’s do this.


	4. Dressed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has to pick out what to wear for the wedding. Jon tells her what he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry that this chapter took a little longer! It's my absolutely pathetic attempt to translate the obligatory rom-com 'trying on dresses' scene into the fic medium.

”You ready?” Margaery asks, and Sansa hopes her answering smile is convincing. Margaery is obviously excited to be doing this, and Sansa’s determined not to let her own lack of enthusiasm be known. They’re back at Robb and Marg’s apartment. The date on that godforsaken wedding invitation is approaching rapidly and a significant question is becoming more and more relevant - what is Sansa going to wear? 

It’s been a month since that confirmatory text from Jon. Sansa RSVP’d the very next day, after an excruciatingly awkward conversation over phone where she asked if Jon was truly sure about this. Having received a surprisingly enthusiastic response from Jon to her query, Sansa had, with mixed emotions, ticked the +1 box and sent it off to Harry and Myranda before she changed her mind. If she had thought that this development would ease the awkward tension between her and Jon, or somehow make the atmosphere between them more relaxed or friendly, she was mistaken. Truly. These past couple of weeks Sansa has been as fumbling, gawky and self-conscious around him as ever, despite them almost seeing _more_ of each other than usual. 

Jon was at Arya’s taco night, during which both Jon and Sansa grew increasingly embarrassed as Arya forced them to tell all the Stark siblings about their plan to attend the wedding, and Sansa felt so acutely guilty for having dragged Jon into this that she had to leave the room with a shaky ’bathroom’ excuse; he was there when Robb and Marg attempted to make homemade pizza - it was Jon who saved the day, when Marg managed to burn most of the food, by driving and picking up, ehrm, _professionally_ made pizza, without complaining or even teasing Marg (and Sansa knew he’d been the one to pay, too); Jon was at Rickon’s soccer game, cheering along with Sansa and the rest of her family as _their_ Rickon, _baby_ Rickon, scored not one, but two goals. 

Still, Sansa has felt Jon has been … keeping his distance with her during the times they’ve seen each other. It’s been making her concerned. Maybe it’s all in her head, but she feels he’s subtly avoided being left alone with her in a social setting. She has this paranoid feeling that maybe he regrets ever having agreed to this stupid idea in the first place, and she isn’t bold enough to ask him straight out, because what if he _does_ regret it? What if he says ’I’m so glad you asked because I’ve been meaning to tell you that I hate you and find you so grossly unappealing that I don’t think I could spend a minute with you, much less a wedding weekend’? 

What is her next move then? Does she email Myranda, saying ’well, my fake date that I planned to bring to your wedding to annoy you cancelled on me, and I don’t dare go on my own, sorry’? The potential ramifications of having a Serious Talk with Jon about this wedding ordeal are too mortifying to think about. So Sansa keeps silent, as this wedding from hell creeps closer and closer.

Her siblings has, of course, been almost _too_ supportive of this petty revenge plan. Sansa’s touched by them being so protective of her, but she fears this has gone a little too far, become a little too awkward for her to handle, too big of a deal. The Starks were all riled up and excited during that taco night, and have been demanding to know every detail of the planning process ever since then. Not that there’s _been_ much of a planning process. Sansa’s preferred not to think about it, really. Her earlier jittery excitement at the _thought_ of this plan has faded significantly as the plan is closer and closer to becoming reality. 

Sansa doesn’t even know what she’s wearing. The thought of spending lots of her precious savings on outfits she might not ever wear again is unappealing, but so is the thought of wearing the blue strapless thingy that she wore to Robb’s wedding, that has since become a size too small for her. When Margaery heard of this dilemma she generously offered to lend Sansa any clothes she might need, and Sansa wasn’t able to say no. Margaery Tyrell’s closet is famous in their entire social circle, especially for the fancy dresses, and to get to choose any of them she likes … it was an offer too tempting to resist, both for Sansa’s soul and her wallet. 

So, after a morning shift at the café, Sansa’s come to see her sister-in-law who, in true Margaery fashion, has arranged a ’trying on dresses’ session in her and Robb’s master bedroom.

”Tadaa!” Marg says. Sansa freezes on the threshold. It’s all very ’Say Yes To The Dress’-y in here - on the nightstand stands a tray with glasses of champagne, and the bed is flawlessly made, all of the bedroom’s intricate lamps lit to bathe the room in brightness. 

But all this is not what gives Sansa pause. 

”What are you all doing here?” she exclaims, looking from Bran, who’s sitting in his wheelchair by the bed, innocently sipping a glass of something sparkling, to Arya, who is draped lavishly across the bed, to Gendry, who in his defense is looking rather uncomfortable, sitting on a chair by the wall.

”We’re here to help you decide on dresses”, offers Arya, as if that’s obvious.

”You hate dresses, Arya”, says Sansa, her eyes narrowing.

”Maybe”, replies her sister, rolling over on her side to look at Sansa. ”But I love revenge.”

Sansa scoffs and looks expectingly at Bran, who shrugs, looking annoyingly at peace.

”I’m here for the hell of it, I guess”, he says. ”Fuck Harry Hardyng, and all that. Plus, I was told there would be champagne.”

”Gendry?” Sansa says. Arya’s boyfriend startles at the words.

”I … was not told what this gathering was about”, he mutters defensively. 

”I’m sorry. Want some champagne, love?” Arya says, reaching for the tray. Sansa sighs, looking at Margaery.

It appears her quiet afternoon spent in Margaery’s closet has become rather a public affair.

* *

”Okay, first; how many outfits are you going to need?” Margaery asks, excitement glittering in her eyes. Sansa looks around the closet, trying not to stare, wide-eyed. It’s … a fucking _huge_ walk-in closet. She doesn’t remember it being this large.

”Well”, Sansa says, biting her lip. ”Several, I’m afraid. There’s a big rehearsal dinner on the first night, and knowing the Hardyng’s, it’s probably going to be fancy. Then a wedding outfit, and there’s a brunch on the Sunday before everyone goes home.”

Margaery nods, looking giddy, but there’s a serious glint in her eyes as well as she begins walking toward one of the mirrors, pushing it to the side to reveal a hanger filled to the brim with grey and black dresses. This is insane, really. The chatter and laughter of her siblings in the bedroom is muffled here behind the closet door, and Sansa feels as if she’s entered an alternate dimension.

”Where is this happening, again?” asks Margaery, beginning to look over the dresses. ”The Vale, was it?”

”Yep. The Vale. Harry’s family has an insane estate there.” Sansa tries to keep any bitterness from her voice. 

”Big wedding?” Marg asks, picking out a dress, _tsk tsk-_ ing in an almost parodical manner and handing it to Sansa, who doesn’t dare object.

”I guess so, if I was invited, _and_ allowed a plus one.” Sansa lets out a surprised yelp as Marg all but throws a black, silky thing at her. Margaery doesn’t flinch at the sound, focused like a bloodhound having picked up a trail as she turns back to the hangers, assessing every dress individually, but efficiently.

”No, no, nope … This one?” asks Marg, and holds out another black dress.

”It looks too tiny for me.”

”Try it”, Marg says assertively and hands her the hanger.

”I take it we’re starting with the rehearsal one then?” Sansa asks tentatively. Marg is a bit scary like this.

”Yeah. I’m thinking black dress, as you can see, do you feel that?” Marg looks at her expectantly, as if whatever reply Sansa is going to deliver is of utmost importance.

”Sure, whatever you say, sir”, Sansa says, glad for Marg’s ’down to buisness’ attitude as she hands her another hanger. After the fifth dress, Sansa stops even looking at them, letting Hurricane Margaery run her course.

When Sansa is holding thirteen dresses and trembling under their weight, Margaery abruptly stops dead in her tracks and stares at her. After a long, assessing glance at Sansa, or at least at what can be seen of her under the pile of dresses, Margaery lets out a satisfied sigh.

”I think that’s enough for the first round.”

”You think?” Sansa says, her shoulders slumping. Marg smiles.

”Shut up. Try them on. I’ll be out there, alright?”

* *

Eight black dresses and one and a half glass of champagne later, Sansa has to admit it: she’s having fun. So far, so good, though none of the dresses have fit the bill; they’ve ranged from disastrous (a shiny one with the most unflattering of silhuettes, somehow making her look like she was both eight months pregnant _and_ terminally ill at the same time), to the risqué (a strapless thing so short that it made Gendry blush, to the great amusement of Bran and Arya) to the boring, but none of them have been _right_. 

But the woos and support from the jury, as Arya insists on calling herself, Marg, Bran and a reluctant Gendry, and the overall childishly exciting rush of playing dress up, has Sansa in a far better mood than she was an hour ago. She steps out in dress number nine with a grin, and grimaces when Arya begins to boo at the sight of the dress.

”What? I thought this one was alright!” exclaims Sansa, turning to look in the mirror.

”It looks like you’re going to the funeral of someone you hated”, Arya says, and Sansa spins around again to look at the rest of the jury, begging for a second opinion. It’s a plain, black dress, but maybe that’s what the situation calls for?

”I hate the sleeves”, says Bran.

”It’s … a bit conventional”, says Margaery, and from her that’s a real discouragement.

”Gendry?” says Sansa, her eyes pleading.

”I don’t think so,” he mutters. 

”Next!” Arya is relentless.

As Sansa pulls the tenth dress on, the material soft against her skin, she hears some type of commotion from outside the closet. She hurries with the dress, not bothering to even glance in the mirror, and when she comes back into the bedroom, Robb has come home. She smiles at him, her cheer seeming to surprise her big brother as he returns her smile.

”Hey Sans”, he says. ”Operation Wedding Crashers in full swing, I see?”

”I wish people would stop calling it that”, Sansa groans, and looks at the jury.

To her great surprise, they are all regarding her with approval in their eyes - even Gendry. Sansa’s puzzled for a brief moment before glancing down at the dress.

”Oh”, she says. ”This is the one, isn’t it?”

* *

Jon is just finished tying his shoes, about to head out for a run, when his phone buzzes. Somewhat absentmindedly, he presses the code in, and when Arya’s message lights up the screen, Jon, in the most pathetic move of the century, nearly drops his phone.

It’s a picture of Sansa. She’s in a long black dress, her hair shining red and slightly tousled, falling down over her shoulders, emphasized by the halterneck cut of the dress. Her eyes are piercing blue even through the screen. She’s looking down at the floor with a heart-wrenching half smile, and the small part of Jon’s brain that is still capable of forming coherent thoughts is wondering if she’s even aware the picture is being taken.

Arya has cheekily captioned it _Ready for rehearsal dinner?,_ and Jon feels his pulse quicken.

* *

”This is definitely it”, Margaery says for the eleventh time, nodding approvingly. Sansa spins around in front of the bedroom mirror one last time, pleased with the way the black fabric moves with her body, clinging to her curves. It’s a truly gorgeous dress. A dress fit for battle even with Harry Hardyng and his entire extended family.

”Mhm”, agrees Bran, leaning back in his chair.

”Fuck yeah”, says Arya. And then she adds, far too nonchalantly to be genuine, ”Jon says you look great.”

” _What_?” Sansa exclaims loudly, quickly turning to face her sister, horrified. The room falls silent at her outburst, the friendly chatter dying as they all exchange looks, their expressions ranging from worried to amused.

”Calm down, weirdo”, Arya finally says, a few seconds too late. ”I just sent one of the pictures to Jon and he says you look great.”

”Oh”, Sansa says, cheeks heating, turning back to the mirror in an attempt to hide her mortification at her own melodramatic reaction. What has gotten _in_ to her? ”Tell him thanks.”

Arya smiles behind her, Sansa can see in the mirror, a smug smirk, as if she knows something that Sansa doesn’t. It’s eerie. Sansa looks away, smoothing the fabric of her dress in a nervous, fidgety motion.

It’s Margaery, of course, dearest, darling Margaery, who saves the atmosphere.

”Alright then, Sans”, she says, with a cheery tone that doesn’t even ring false, ”one outfit down, two more to go.”

And even in her embarrassed, confused state, Sansa can’t help but laugh at Gendry’s shocked expression as he hears that statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the setup will be over shortly, hahah, soon this actual wedding business will begin. I swear lmao
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and especially for your comments, they make my day! I'm @lastofthegiants on tumblr if anyone wants to say hi. I'll try and keep the updates comingggg


	5. The Day Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day before the trip, and both Sansa and Jon are feeling the pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone - I'm so so sorry for not updating for awhile. I've started studying and it's been stressful. This chapter is short and uninspired, but it's something, hopefully enough to give me a bit of momentum.

Sansa gently places the flowers on the grave, arranging them so they lay prettily. For once, sun shines upon Wintertown. Her legs are bare beneath her dress, and Sansa relishes the warm breeze against her skin. The graveyard is empty save for her. There’s something of a strange, surreal feeling in the air. Or maybe that’s just Sansa’s nerves.

  
She tries to visit her parents’ grave often, bringing flowers, and candles during the darker months. She stays for a while to remember, to stay in tune. It’s a ritual, of sorts - honoring her parents, but alsofeeling they’re still a part of her life. Arya and Rickon don’t like to come. Arya said once that she doesn’t want to remember them in death, but in life, and Sansa understands her.

But herself, Sansa finds solace by the grave. She tends to come here more frequently when she’s in need of comfort or guidance, times when she’d turn to her parents for advice had they still been with her. And today is one of those days, as silly as it sounds.

It’s a Thursday. Tomorrow she and Jon will be driving to the Vale, embarking on a potentially disastrous journey.

Sansa’s been a nervous wreck all week. At least ten times she’s decided to call the whole thing off and fake the stomach flu or something, picked up her phone and then chickened out last second. And so horrifying day after horrifying day has passed, and whether Sansa likes it or not, it looks as if she’s going tomorrow.

She’s been in surprisingly little contact with Jon, who’s subtle distancing of himself from her has kept going. She knows Robb and Marg took him to get a tux a couple of weeks back. (Sansa can’t think why, when the one he wore at Robb’s wedding looked so good. Although he may have rented that one. Now that she thinks about it, Jon doesn’t really seem the type to own a tux.) 

When they met for work last week they both ridiculously avoided the wedding subject, to the point where Sansa worried that she might have hallucinated the fact that they were ever going in the first place. Her worries had been quelled, however, when Jon awkwardly said goodbye with a ”… see you nextFriday, Stark. Road trip.”

And now next week has come and Sansa’s seeking to calm her nerves in a graveyard. 

* *

”This is completely pathetic”, Jon mutters to himself, not for the first time.

  
”It’s not _that_ pathetic”, Arya offers from his couch. ”You’re being nice.” 

He checks his bag one more time, feeling like a nervous twelve-year-old headed to summer camp. It’s only over the weekend, but it does feel like a lot is riding on this one fucking weekend. 

”You need to calm down.” Arya again.

”Thanks for the excellent advice,” he says coming into the living room, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

”No problem! Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with”, Arya chirps. 

Jon is just about to retort when his phone begins buzzing, and when he sees the name on the screen his stomach does a back flip.

”Hi, Stark”, he answers, his voice strangely mushy to his own ears. Arya is dead silent on the couch. He knows she’s listening intently.

”Hi, Jon”, Sansa says melodically. There’s a faint sound of a motor in the background - she must be in the car.

”What’s up?” he says, going into the kitchen to get some privacy, away from Arya’s prying ears. ”Are you driving?”

”Oh, yeah”, she responds on the other end of the phone, sounding hesitant. ”I went to, ehrm, visit my parents.” 

”Ah”, he says.

”But I’m on my way home now”, she quickly follows with, ”and I just … thought I’d call to check how you’re doing. If you’re, heh, ready for tomorrow.”

”I am, I think. Arya’s helping me pack.”   
  
”God”, Sansa groans. ”Don’t let her. She’s the worst packer. Once we were going skiing, and she literally forgot to bring a jacket. On a skiing trip.”

”I’ll stay on my toes”, he promises her. ”What about you? You … feeling excited? Ready?” He picks up an apple from the fruit bowl and throws it up in the air.

A worrying amount of silence. Then …

”I’m not sure what I’m feeling, to tell you the truth. But I’m packed, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice sounds strained, and Jon suddenly feels very alert. It’s instinctive. She sounds sad, and stressed, and tense. He wants to help. Jon begins pacing around the room, the apple forgotten on the kitchen counter.

”It’s not to late to call the whole thing off, you know”, he hears himself saying. At this point, he’s not sure if he would relish or detest the cancellation of the wedding plans.

”Don’t tempt me”, Sansa says, but he thinks he can hear the shadow of a smile.

A long pause, again. He’d have thought she’d hung up if it weren’t for the sound of her car in the background.

  
”Well”, Sansa finally says. ”If you’re still sure about doing this …”

He huffs in response. Did she really think he’d back out now? Jon Snow is many things, but he’s not a quitter.

”… then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dismissive words. Still, she sounds haunted.

”See you tomorrow, Stark.”

She hangs up, then, but he finds himself standing in his kitchen for a while, the silence rushing in. 

”That was Sansa, I assume”, says Arya when he finally rejoins her in the living room. He nods in response.

  
”How’d she sound?” Arya asks nonchalantly, but Jon knows there’s nothing nonchalant about the question. Arya worries more than she lets on.

_Sad._ ”Nervous, I think.” 

* *

And so the day arrives.

Sansa wakes from a restless sleep before the alarm goes off. Clumsily changing into her comfortable (and, though she’d never admit it, carefully selected) outfit, she takes a few minutes to sit on the bed, staring out into nothing and contemplating her own existence and all the choices she’s ever made that’s lead her to this point.

Then, it’s time for breakfast.

A cup of tea improves Sansa’s mood marginally. However, her stomach drops once more at the sound of the doorbell. A glance at her kitchen clock confirms what she already suspected: Jon is more than an hour early. 

Sansa takes a deep breath and tries to silence her internal screaming. Then, like an 18th century french nobleman being marched to the guillotine, she goes to get the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, so much for reading and especially for all your lovely comments, I know I'm the wOoOooRst at replying but just know that I appreciate them a lot. 
> 
> I can't promise when the next chapter will be out, but I'll work on it, I swear!


	6. You Got a Fast Car (Is It Fast Enough so We Can Fly Away?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon set out on their epic journey.
> 
> Chapter title from "Fast Car" with Tracy Chapman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no idea what's going on here! Sorry about the lack of updates, I'm super busy nowadays with uni and work, but here's a chapter, at last. It's the last transport chapter, I promise. We're nearly at the fun part lmao

”Surprise!”

Embarrassingly, the sight that greets Sansa on the other side of the door nearly moves her to tears. It’s not at all a sullen Jon Snow reluctantly coming to pick her up, but her siblings standing outside. They’ve even managed to drag Rickon along. Her youngest brother is wearing his best teenage ”to be here is embarrassing” expression, but Sansa finds that quite understandable. Margaery brought flowers. Arya is grinning not quite unlike a serial killer. 

For a moment Sansa just stands there, speechless, staring at them. Still a bit grumpy, but so, so grateful to have them. 

”Let us in, I really have to pee”, says Rickon then, and the spell is somewhat broken.

* *

When Jon arrives an hour later, he hasn’t been sure what to expect. Well, whatever he anticipated ringing Sansa’s doorbell, it sure wasn’t this. For starters, it’s Robb opening the door, with his signature crooked smile and an eye roll in Jon’s direction, as if to say ”isn’t this nuts”, before stepping aside to let Jon in. Jon responds with a grimace-y smile of his own, and steps over the threshold.

Inside, it’s quite the commotion. Gendry and Rickon are involved in a heated discussion of some sort on the couch. The TV is turned on, ”The Real Housewives of Westeros” playing, Cersei Lannister at the moment in an expletive-filled onscreen argument with her estranged brother. There’s excited chatter from the kitchen: Arya’s loudly declaring something that sends several others into fits of laughter. Just as Jon enters the living room, Sansa steps out from her bedroom, and from across the far-less-neat-than-usual room, their eyes meet.

Jon looks at Sansa.

Sansa looks at Jon.

One, two, three seconds pass.

Then she shoots him a careful smile and a barely noticable shrug. He shrugs back, leaning against the doorframe. Between them, Gendry and Rickon briefly give him a respective ”hi Jon” before launching back into their discussion. On the TV, Cersei Lannister dramatically storms out of the room. Jon keeps his eyes on Sansa. He raises an eyebrow.

  
”You alright?” he mouths.

Sansa shrugs once more in response, but another smile is tugging at the corner of her lips.

”You ready?” she mouths back.

When he exaggeratedly shrugs in response, Sansa lets out a snorted laughter that makes Gendry and Rickon abruptly stop their conversation, looking from Jon to Sansa with puzzled (Gendry) and annoyed (Rickon) looks.

Jon clears his throat, looking down at the floor.

”Should I get your bags down to the car? I’m parked just outside.”

* *

The morning is cool, but the shining sun foretells a hot day. When Jon pulls out of his parking spot and the car begins rolling, a peculiar feeling rises in Sansa’s stomach. It’s not quite terror, not quite excitement and not quite surrealism, but not far from either one. She turns around to wave at her family gathered behind the car one last time. The Starks and company look idyllic in the morning light, a sweet gathering of people all waving. Even as the car moves further and further down the street, Sansa can still see Arya and Margaery’s matching grins.

Sansa turns back around and faces the road, fastening her seatbelt for what is sure to be a bumpy ride ahead. Her nerves prevent her from looking directly at Jon, but she glances at his hand on the steering wheel. He is gripping it tightly, the veins on his hands clearly visible.

”What a sendoff, huh?” he says after a few moments of silence.

”Gods, yeah. They’re big dorks”, Sansa says, her tone almost apologetic. ”Did you know that they were going to do this?”  
”What, the farewell committee thing? Nah, I didn’t. If I had, I’d have warned you, I swear.” A ridiculous part of Sansa, one that she is not particularly proud of, is thrilled at this display of friendship and intimacy from him, the idea that there is no question about whether or not he would have warned her. ”I think it’s sweet”, he continues.

”Sorry?” she says, blushing, pulled away from her pathetic line of thought.

”No, I was just saying I think it’s sweet of them to come see us off.”

”Hah! Yeah. It was sweet. They’re a bit nutty, but sweet”, she amends, and dares a look at him. Like a responsible driver, his eyes remain on the road. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing defined arms. She has a sudden impulse to touch him, and has to tear her eyes away, mentally scolding herself. 

She gets the sense that he has something else to say, or maybe to ask, but he remains silent. Sansa doesn’t investigate further.

* *

After a while of riding in a silence that is not entirely awkward, but not entirely comfortable either, Sansa suggests that they put on some music. Jon agrees, handing her the aux cord without much thought. When a familiar set of chords begins playing from the speakers, he glances at her in surprise.

”… is this Brotherhood Without Banners?”

”Yeah. _Outlaw._ Arya introduced me to them. Do you like them?”

”They’re … uhm, they’re my favorite band.”

”You’re joking”, she says, and he can hear her smile. 

They fall quiet, listening to the song, the world passing by rapidly outside, the two of them alone together in the car with the melody. And for the first time, Jon is convinced that this weekend is going to turn out well.

When _Outlaw_ finishes playing, _Stoneheart_ immediately follows. To Jon’s delight, Sansa begins singing along to the song, seemingly almost unaware she’s doing so. She clearly knows all the lyrics. By the time the chorus comes around, she’s worked her way up in volume and intensity, singing with animation. He looks at her for a moment. An auburn lock of hair has liberated itself from her ponytail, she’s singing her heart out, and he’s filled with such genuine affection for her his heart literally skips a beat.

She must have sensed him looking, because when she turns her head and sees him regarding her she stops singing in the middle of a lyric line, her cheeks blossoming red and her eyes darting back to the road.

”I’m sorry. I just love this song”, she says in a low voice.

He doesn’t respond. 

But when the next verse starts up, he begins humming along. It takes a few lines, but eventually, Sansa too starts singing, and in amicable, not very musically proficient cheer, they keep driving.

* *

”Stark”, Jon starts. 

They’ve stopped for lunch at a seedy diner that makes Sansa miss Hot Pie’s divine cooking, and even that stupid neon sign. The road trip has, perhaps to her surprise, been lovely so far. She and Jon have chatted about the Starks, the café, which is in Edd’s hands for the weekend, and plans for the summer. Friendly conversation without pressure, and if at times they’ve been quiet, that has felt just fine. She’s beginning to relax a little more in his company, and she gets the impression that he feels the same.

Neither of them has brought up their destination, or the reason why this road trip is taking place. But Jon’s been quiet with a thoughtful expression on his face for a little while now, and when he says her name like that, she knows her time of peace has come to an end. 

”Yeah?” Sansa says, her voice sounding unnaturally cheerful.

”You doing alright with this Hardyng buisness?” He’s frowning, grey eyes watching her carefully. 

”Well… it’s all a bit surreal at the moment, if I’m being honest.” Sansa scans the room. A waitress emerges from the kitchen with what looks to be their food. A speeding car passes on the road outside - the roar of the motor cuts through the walls. Sansa does not look at Jon. Sansa does not think about the wedding. ”But I’m okay. I’m not panicking, yet, so there’s that.” She meets his eyes then and dares a smile. He doesn’t return the gesture.

”I’ll turn the car around if you say the word.”

”Which word?”

”’Help’ will do. Or maybe ’stop’. ’Panicking’?”

”Wait, I should be writing these down.”

He rolls his eyes, as the waitress puts his plate down on the table in front of him, while giving him a long, appreciative look. Jon seems oblivious to her flirting.

”Alright”, Jon says to Sansa as the waitress heads off, disappointedly slouching her shoulders. ”Would you give me a rundown of the schedule?”

Sansa brings a hand up to cover her mouth, which is currently trying to chew a frankly enormous amount of fries. 

”Well”, she says when she’s in condition to speak again. ”Let’s see. We’re” - she checks her phone - ”actually a little bit ahead of schedule, strangely enough. So we’ll arrive at the hotel right before three. Plenty of time to settle in. Then we’re mingling, doing the rehearsal dinner at the hotel. The ceremony is tomorrow, on Harry’s, ehrm I mean Hardyng’s estate, and the reception’s there too. Then a brunch at the hotel the next morning, aaand we’re free.”

”Wow. They don’t fuck around.” Jon seems genuinely surprised at the magnitude of what he’s gotten himself into. Once more Sansa is overwhelmed with guilt for dragging him along on this suicidal mission with her.

”I know. It’s weird. Neither of them is honestly the type to get married young. I’m surprised they’re making such a huge deal out of it. Harry refused to let me even breach the subject, and now look at him.” Sansa can taste the bitterness in her mouth, and she is too on edge to attempt to hide it. The thought of Harry ”marriage is a model of unhappiness enforced by society” Hardyng getting married before her is proving a hard pill to swallow. And to Myranda, of all people, who was always so free-spirited and unconventional. Two years ago, Sansa would never in a million years have believed that Myranda Royce would accept a grand, traditional wedding at her fiancés _family estate_. 

But people change and life goes on and Sansa eats some more fries. She can feel Jon’s eyes on her. 

”Fucker”, is all he says.

It’s all she needs to hear.

* *

SANSA (to the ’Stark sisters’ group chat) 13.52

Almost in the Vale. Jon has already slipped and called this ”operation wedding crashers” once. 

ARYA 14.06

that’s my dude

* *

The roads are becoming narrower and narrower, the mountains steeper and steeper, the view grander and grander. Sansa and Jon keep more and more quiet as the drive becomes more perilous, Jon focusing on the road and Sansa on not looking down the steep drop outside the window. The mountain pass is famously a nightmare drive, but it’s one thing to hear about it, another thing entirely to be inches away from tumbling to your demise. Sansa’s never been to the Vale. There was a time when she wanted nothing more than for Harry to take her here and introduce her to all of his family. The thought is spectacularly ironic during the current circumstances.

An old ruin ahead: what used to be two towers, the bridge that once connected them now long gone. 

”The bloody gate”, Sansa says, in awe. She’s always loved history, remnants of a lost world. Jon seems amused by her fascination, but he doesn’t tease her, like Arya would have.

And then …

And then …

The Vale of Arryn stretches out before them, unfathomably gorgeous in the afternoon sun. The greenest of greens as far as the eyes can see. They’re surrounded by mountains towering over them, gods of rock and stone. Sun beating down.

For a few moments, all both Jon and Sansa can do is stare, mesmerized by the beauty.

Then reality hits.

”We’re almost there”, Jon announces, saying what Sansa is thinking.

”Panicking”, Sansa squeals, her dignity and air of indifference now a far off memory.

”Really?” Jon says, in disbelief, glancing at her. ”Should I pull over?”

”No!” she says, too sharply, startling him. ”Sorry. I just … don’t let me back out now.”

She stares straight ahead, at the incomprehensible beauty out there.

They really are here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and especially for your comments, they always make my day ♥♥♥


	7. Two Pals, One Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon arrive at the hotel. However, there's an issue at check in. And their room gets an unexpected visitor...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo thanks as always for your comments and stuff, please do keep 'em coming. This is a trope-filled shorter chapter, but it's starting to get juicy ....... the plot ...... thickens ...........

”Sansa Stark? Is that you?” 

They’re in the hotel lobby and the moment of truth has arrived, in the form of Harry Hardyng’s aunt Anya. who is coming towards them with a smile on her face. Sansa doesn’t have to fake her own smile. She’s always liked aunt Anya.

”Hi! So nice to see you again”, she says and gives the shorter woman a heartfelt hug. ”This is my boyfriend, Jon Snow”, Sansa says, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder with what she hopes is a casual gesture. It’s the first time she’s said it out loud, and Sansa’s surprised at how natural she sounds. Their voices echo slightly beneath the high ceilings of the lobby. It’s a beautiful hotel, to Sansa’s delight/annoyance/heartbreak.

”Well, well, well, look at you, aren’t you handsome?” says Anya to Jon, who is, to Sansa’s utter disbelief, almost blushing. Then aunt Anya turns to Sansa again. ”It’s so strange to think that you’re at Harry’s wedding with a boyfriend, dear. We all thought you’d have a more important part to play if he ever got married”, Anya says, with her typical bluntness. Sansa glances at Jon, who suitably looks mildly offended. She hadn’t realised how good he’d be at acting the part of new boyfriend.

”Well, that wasn’t meant to be”, is all Sansa can think to reply. Anya looks as if she wants to say something more, but then someone calls her name from across the room, and with an apologetic smile and an assurance that they’ll talk more later to Sansa, and a wink and a ”nice to meet you” to Jon, she’s off. Sansa sighs with relief. First test passed.

She isn’t sure what she expected to happen. That the minute she walked in here beside Jon, someone would point at them and yell ”fake boyfriend! She has a fake boyfriend! J’accuse!”? Most likely, no one is going to pay enough attention to them to notice anything strange. At least, that’s what Sansa hopes.

”I’ll check us in, just keep an eye on the bags?” she says in what she hopes is not a bossy tone. Jon nods and stands by their luggage with his arm crossed. He’s been quiet since they got to the hotel - Sansa doesn’t blame him. As uncomfortable as this is for her, it must be even weirder for him.

* *

SANSA (to the ’Stark sisters’ group chat) 15.05

(PIC)

We’re just checking in at the hotel … pray for me/us

ARYA 15.11

lmao why does Jon look so grumpy in this pic

and the only thing I’ll be praying for is Harry Hardyng’s untimely death

MARGAERY 15.15

we are rooting for you babe

(I don’t condone murder, Arya)

(or do I)

* * *

”There must be some sort of misunderstanding”, Sansa says in a low voice, to keep anyone from overhearing. ”I specifically asked for a room with two single beds.”

”I’m very sorry, ma’am. Your reservation is for a room with one queen bed.” The receptionist’s professional smile does not falter. Sansa is certainly not panicking. Not at all.

”Is there absolutely no way to change that?”  


”We’re fully booked for the wedding, I’m afraid.” She looks genuinely sympathetic, though Sansa suspects she’s just very good at her job. Herself, Sansa is losing her last shred of sanity at the thought of explaining to Jon that though she assured him they’d be in separate beds and it wouldn’t be weird, that plan was thrown out the window and they’re now having to cozy up together. 

  
As if reading her mind,Jon suddenly appears beside her, sullenly looking first at the receptionist, then at Sansa.

  
”What’s the matter?” he says matter-of-factly.

”They… ehrm, there’s a problem with our booking”, she says. ”It … The room only has one bed.”

”One bed?” Jon says, a bit too loudly. Sansa hushes him, looking around. The place is, naturally, swarming with Harry’s and Miranda’s friends and family. Anyone overhearing their insistence on sleeping in separate beds is going to be suspicious, to say the least. But no one is looking their way. 

”I’m afraid that’s the only room available, sir.” 

Jon swallows, and looks at Sansa.

She looks back.

He grimaces.

They let out a collective sigh.

* *

SANSA (to the ’Stark sisters’ group chat) 15.23

panic! at the hotel

there is only one bed!!!!!!!!!! in the room!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ARYA 15.27

that’s usually the way hotel rooms work

SANSA 15.28

I BOOKED A ROOM WITH TWO BEDS AND NOW IT’S ALL SCREWED

I’m sleeping on the floor

MARGAERY 15.31

share the bed coward

  
* * *

Despite the emotional toll it takes on her to admit it, Sansa can’t deny it: this is one hell of a hotel. More specifically, it’s one hell of a view. The large window overlooks the Vale, as pretty as ever in the afternoon sun, and atop a cliff high in the mountains one can glimpse the Eyrie, and the cableway going up to the top. Her pulse quickens at the thought of being in one of the carriages, climbing up the mountain. But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, is indeed a problem for today. When she and Jon finally went up to the room, after pleading with reception to no avail for a few minutes, they were both tense. The comfortable feeling lingering between them since the enjoyable car ride had faded completely. Sansa had offered to sleep on the floor. Jon had made clear that under no circumstance could he allow that to happen. He, on the other hand, should sleep on the floor. They danced around each other on that topic for a while, their tone polite but strained. Finally, Sansa had been the one to say it.

”Let’s just share the bed.”

”Huh?” Jon had said, looking flabbergasted.

”It’s a huge bed. We’ll share it.”

”… if you’re not -”

”I’m fine with it.” It wasn’t a lie, Sansa was shocked to realise.

”Alright then”, Jon had said, with an unreadable expression. Moments later, he excused himself from the room, saying he was going to get some air, though Sansa suspected that was just his way of giving her some space to unpack and unwind. She’s enjoyed being alone for a while, given an opportunity to sort out her thoughts and feelings.

And, to her surprise, she’s feeling … not great, perhaps, but much better than anticipated. She’s nervous more than panicked, now. And unexpectedly, she’s feeling pretty calm about all of this with Jon. Maybe it’s their nice little road trip that’s made her relax a bit. Maybe it’s their runin with aunt Anya that’s made her more confident they can pull this ruse off. Whatever it is, Sansa gratefully welcomes any and all calm she can muster. She has a feeling she is going to need it.

Her line of thought is interrupted by a knock at the door. Sansa, rolling her eyes at Jon knocking to get into his own room, calls out ”come in!” She is answered only by another knock. Somewhat annoyed now, she approaches the door.

For the second time that day, Sansa opens a door and expects to find Jon on the other side, but is instead greeted by someone else. But if the surprise from her family this morning brought her to tears because of their kindness, _this_ unexpected visitor is likely to make her cry for entirely different reasons.

Standing on the threshold, hands in his pockets, with a careful smile on his lips, is Harry fucking Hardyng.


	8. Ex's & Oh's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blasts from the past as both Jon and Sansa find themselves in conversations they did not anticipate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick so I have time to write, but that might also affect the quality of this chapter lmao. It's also basically all dialogue and I hate writing dialogue. So yeah. Excuse me for this. It might be shit. I'm too scared/sick to read through it properly
> 
> Chapter title from the Elle King song of the same name.

For a moment, Sansa’s completely frozen. 

It’s the equivalent of finding the murderer in your closet in a horror movie scenario: ungraspable terror along with a dash of _why did this have to happen to me today?_ Harry looks her up and down with an uncomfortably intimate gaze. Sansa’s cheeks flush red. His scrutiny is not flirty, but combined with his smile it comes across both cocky and invasive.

”Hello, Sans.” His voice is low and sweet. She used to love the sound of that fucking voice. It’s still undeniably attractive, but there’s an edge to it that Sansa doesn’t care for at all.

”Hi, Harry.” Her tone is short and comes off cold - his smile somewhat fades. _Good._ But seeing as it is his wedding, after all, her inherent politeness forces her to give him a guarded smile.   
  
”Wow. It’s … this is insane”, he says. ”It’s been so long since I saw you, Sans.”

”Have I grown?” Sansa says dryly. 

”Can I come in?” he says, seemingly unbothered by her stiffness. Sansa begins to panic, weighing the alternatives. She can’t exactly tell him to go to hell, can she? It’s his bloody wedding. On the other hand, there’s nothing she wants less than having a private chat with Harry fucking Hardyng in her hotel room. 

_Tell him to fuck off,_ whispers a voice in her head, sounding rather like Arya.

But, as is most often the case, her polite instincts win the tug of war inside her.

  
Sansa sighs and steps aside, allowing Harry fucking Hardyng entrance to the hotel room. 

Sending a silent prayer out into the universe, she leans out and looks down the corridor, but no god has heard her: there is no sign of Jon. Taking a deep breath, Sansa closes the door, and turns to face Harry.

* * *

Arya picks up after only two signals.

”What’s up, Snow?” she says, and he can hear chatter in the background. He kicks one of the stones lying on the hotel parking lot before him. It barely moves.

  
”Hi”, he mutters, and already regrets calling. He’s felt the intense need to talk to someone about the Sansa situation ever since they got out of the car. Now it seems rather pathetic, running off to tell Arya ’hey, your sister talked to me! Looked at me! Acknowledged my existence! Ain’t that neat?’

”How’s it going?” Arya says.

”It’s going … it’s going good. We’re checked in …”

”So only one bed, huh?” she interrupts. ”Intense.”

”What the … She told you that already?” 

”Group chat, baby.”

Jon kicks another stone, this time so forcefully it fucks off into the bushes.

”Are you sulking?” Arya says on the other end. ”It sounds like you’re sulking, Snow.”

He doesn’t respond.

”… you’re sharing the bed, aren’t you?”

”Bye, Arya.”

” _You_ called _me_ , asshat.”

”Yeah, I …” he begins, kicking another stone into the bushes.

”Jon?” says a light voice behind him. ”Jon bloody Snow?”

He spins around, cartoonishly fast, because that voice … Surely it can’t be …

Holy fucking hell, it i _s_.

”Arya, I have to call you back.”

* *

”So …” Harry says, and it’s a situation so beyond surreal it’s almost comical. Almost. Sansa, sitting in an armchair opposite Harry, who nobly offered to sit on the stool, stares out the window, determined not to feel or think or react to his presence in any way. _Fuck, that is an amazing view._ If your ex and your former friend get married and invite you, it should be illegal for them to have the wedding in such a gorgeous setting. ”How have you been, Sansa?”

”I’ve been fine.” She meets his eyes then, unsurprised to find them drilling into her already. ”How about you?”

”I’ve been fine too”, he says, smiling. ”Good, great, brilliant. Can we cut the shit? How have you _really_ been?” He says it like he knows the answer already.

Sansa smiles. She knows it’s a convincing one, can feel it. He seems a bit thrown by her lack of response to his provocation, but quickly recovers.

”I heard you quit your job.” He stares at her unashamedly, and Sansa does her best not to appear nervous. Where the fuck is Jon when you need him?

”That was a while ago now”, she says. It comes off harsher than she meant it to, and she has the bizarre urge to apologize. Harry only seems amused, a smirk tugging on his lips.

Is this the man who broke her heart?

Is this the man she has been crying over?

”So what are you doing now?” he asks nonchalantly, as if they’re merely old acquaintancesmaking small talk at the bus stop. Sansa wants to run away and never look back. ”Are you writing again?”

_Yes,_ she wants to say, _yes, I’m writing. I just landed a million dollar book deal and the phone won’t stop ringing and in a couple of years when I publish my memoirs I’m going to expose you as a fucking asshole and I won’t bother to change your name and you can sue me all you like, I can afford it._

”No”, she says, clearing her throat. ”I’m … I’m managing a café, actually, at the moment.”

To her genuine surprise, he starts laughing, disbelief in his eyes. Sansa swallows. It’s a slap in the face, and the hurt is oh so familiar. He always knew how to make her feel small.

”A café? Really?” he says, reigning himself in, seeming to sense how insulted she feels. ”I’m sorry, Sans, I just - I’m having trouble picturing you in a café.”

”It’s been fun”, Sansa says through gritted teeth.

* *

”Val?” Jon says, hanging up the phone. ”What the fuck?”

It _is_ Val who is coming towards him, her signature blonde hair swinging in the breeze as she steps toward him, with a look of surprise that surely matches his own.

”I can’t believe you’re here!” she says, stopping right before him. After a few seconds she gives him an awkward hug.

”Hi… what the… I haven’t seen you in …”

”… what, three years?” She smiles at him. ”Are you here for the wedding?”

”Uhm, yeah! I… wow, it’s so weird to see you”, he says, and he can hear how goofy it sounds. He looks around the parking lot, but they’re the only ones there. ”I’m here as someone’s date.”

”Pity”, she says with a small smile. He must have paled, because in a second she adds, ”I’m just fucking with you.”

”Who … why …”

”… am I here?” she offers. ”I’m a bridesmaid, actually. Myranda’s a friend from uni.”

”Small world”, he says, and swallows.

* *

”Why are you here, Harry?” she says, finally losing patience. The sun has come out in the valley outside, she’s getting a headache from all the underlying tension and there’s a part of her that’s so sick of pretending already. But this isn’t even the first act, she knows. The real pretending is yet to come.

”What do you mean?” he says, brows furrowing. Can he really be surprised by such an obvious question?

”Why did you come to my room just now?”

”Is that how you treat an old friend?” he says. She doesn’t respond in words nor actions. ”Well, if I can be honest with you, Sansa -”

”That would be a first”, she mutters. 

”What was that?”

”Nothing. You were saying?”  


”I was bloody sure you weren’t going to come, is all. And when I heard you were and that you checked in, I figured I was gonna check you weren’t planning to go all _Carrie_ on us.” 

”Oh”, she says, offering a small smile. Relief, of course, that his answer wasn’t ’to seduce you and ask you to run away with me’. (And a dirty, pathetic part of her that’s almost … bitter? Surprised?) ”Well, I’m not.”

”I know. And … I know I’ve been an arse, Sans”, Harry says, and there’s a glitter of something in his eyes. Sansa’s frozen again, dumbfounded.

Fuck.

This was what she’d fallen for with Harry. Not his looks or his intellect, though those certainly spoke to his advantage. He could just be so wonderfully contradictive, sometimes, taking her by surprise at every turn. He was harsh and arrogant at times, and downright ridiculous at others. Even during the honeymoon phase Sansa had reluctantly been aware of that. But once in a blue moon he could just let slip something so self-aware, or vulnerable, or loving, that it made it seem like _that_ was who he truly was, that beneath the act, he was a good man. It was moments like these, these little cracks in the facade, that made him so intriguing to her. 

”I*ve been worried about you, you know”, he says now, voice low. His words fill the room.

”Worried about me?” she says in a whisper.

How she’d wondered. During the darkest hours. Wondered if he ever thought about her, ever regretted anything, ever wondered how she was.

”I know I hurt you”, he says, voice still low, sending a shiver through her. ”You … Fuck, Sansa. There’s something so … you’ve always been so sensitive. I was worried it’d kill you.”

”Oh.” Well, there went the illusion. Sansa crash-landed in reality again. _Always been so sensitive my ass._ ”You were worried … that your rejection … would literally kill me?”

”Sans”, he starts.

”Well, it didn’t!” she says in an unnaturally upbeat tone. ”It sure didn’t kill me, ha ha ha.” The laugh is less a laugh, more her literally saying the words ”ha ha ha” to a confused Harry. ”Congratulations on the wedding, by the way!” she says, sounding almost manic by now. ”I don’t think I’ve told you that yet! Congratulations, Harry, really. I’m really … so very happy for you both.”

”Sans”, he says. 

”And thank you, really, for inviting me … us. It was a nice gesture, truly.”

”Sansa …”

_”What?”_

They stare at each other in silence for a while, a breathless silence.

It’s broken by a faint knock on the door, and the sound of it opening.

The following scene plays out in slow motion for Sansa.

Jon freezes on the threshold, looking from Harry to Sansa with a deep frown. Harry’s face falls as he surveys Jon from top to toe. Sansa stares first at Harry, then at Jon, for a moment completely at a loss as to what to do.

She regains her composure only a few seconds too late.

_”_ Hi … Jon”, contemplating using a cutesy nickname to really drive home the point, but deciding against it at the last moment. ”Harry, you remember Jon Snow. He’s my boyfriend, now, actually.”

”No way”, Harry says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s clearly thrown, and Sansa is definitely going to hell for the cheap, but oh so fucking sweet satisfaction of seeing him so bothered. ”’Course I remember. How’s it going, Snow? Been a while.”

Jon answers only with a curt nod, and again Sansa is embarrassingly delighted at Harry’s discomfort. The two men stare at each other without breaking eye contact, a dick measuring contest if ever there was one. Harry, sitting down, appears much smaller than Jon, who is still towering in the doorway. For a fleeting moment, Sansa wishes Arya was here. She’d love this. But in order to save money on attorney fees, it’s probably best if Sansa makes sure Arya’s never in the same room as Harry again.

Then Harry turns to Sansa again, interrupting her line of thought.

”Myranda said you were bringing a plus one, Sans. I didn’t realise it was Snow.” She knows him well enough to hear the disapproving undertone.   
  
”No?” Sansa says, in what she hopes is a blasé manner. ”Well, he’s very glad he could come, aren’t you, Jon?”

”Thrilled”, he gruffs, with an expression of stone, and Sansa does her very best not to smile. 

”Congratulations”, Jon adds. Harry looks at the two of them with disdain. He rises from the couch. 

”Well, we’re glad you’re both here”, Harry says, sounding more uncertain than he has so far. ”I’ll … I have a lot to … Thank you for the chat, Sansa. It’s been too long. I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner, then.” He moves to the door and Jon waits a brief, but poignant moment before stepping aside and letting him through the door.

Harry exits the room, and Jon shuts the door behind him.

Sansa looks at Jon.

Jon looks at Sansa.

Sansa lets out a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken record time: as always thanks so much for all your amazeballs comments, I love and appreciate them so fuckin much
> 
> If this virus thing keeps up I might crank out another chapter in the near future, beware!


	9. Better Than We Imagined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for rehearsal dinner, an event filled with all kinds of tensions. 
> 
> Or: the first time this fake dating AU actually contains fake dating lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry I've not updated for a while, it's been a crazy a couple of weeks. This story makes me super insecure as a writer since it's not quite what I usually write, but I have it all planned out and am def planning on finishing this fic ♥

”Oh bloody hell”, Sansa mutters, grinding her teeth. She is sweating like crazy, hair a bit skewed, her appearance not quite the put together image she has imagined. She tries again, reaching behind her back and tugging on the zip. Still, it won't move. Sansa cannot understand what the fuck is wrong with it. In Marg's closet it had slipped on with ease, but of course, now, when it really matters, the dress has abandoned all attempts at courtesy.

* *

”Jon?” Sansa tentatively calls from the hotel bathroom. He looks up from where he has been struggling with his tie, walking up to the bathroom door. Silence.

  
”Are you alright?” he says.

To his utmost surprise, the door whips open, revealing an (adorably) disheveled Sansa, with a slight craze in her eyes. 

”The zip”, she says.

”What?” 

  
”The zip … is stuck.” He clenches his jaw to keep from laughing at her deranged expression. 

”Turn around”, he says, and for a brief moment, Sansa flashes him a curious look before indeed spinning around. Jon, feeling much like a creep, cannot stop his sharp intake of breath at the exposed skin of her back. The clasp of her bra is visible in the open slit where the zip ought to be, and Jon automatically averts his eyes, though he knows she can’t see him.

She gathers her loose red hair in one hand and throws it over her shoulder, stilling. Jon is frozen for a few seconds, before realizing he’s just standing there.

”Right”, he mutters, beginning to work at the zip. He tugs at it. No luck. He tries another grip. Still nothing. His fingers accidentally brush against her naked skin. Is it his imagination? Or does the touch make her shiver slightly?  
  
He recoils, and tries the zip again, and to his relief/disappointment it finally agrees to go up all the way to the top.

”There”, he says, and he hopes he doesn’t actually sound as breathless as he does to his own ears. Sansa turns around, slowly, and when she’s facing him again they’re standing closer than they were before. He can actually feel her breath against his skin. She raises her hand as if to brush his cheek, and his heart stops.

But her hand stills at his tie. He hopes she cannot feel his heart beating.

”This looks terrible”, she says softly. ”Let me.”

He nods, and lifts his chin a bit, exposing his neck. Jon does not take his eyes off her as she adjusts his tie. When done, she takes a step back. A shaky smile at him.

”There.”

* *

Forty-five minutes later. Elevator. Sansa’s heart’s in her throat. She clenches and unclenches her fist. Jon is hard to read as he stands beside her, his usual brooding self. She’s forgotten how good he looks dressed up, and that suit is an unhelpful reminder in her current state of panic. 

”Jon?” she says. The elevator begins moving.

”Mhm?” he grunts.

”Thank you”, she says, and it’s almost a whisper. ”For doing this. Really, I … thank you.”

The elevator stills. Sansa grabs Jon’s hand, inhaling deeply.

With a cheerful ring, the elevator doors slide open, revealing the hotel lobby.

* *

They move through the room, Jon significantly distracted by the feeling of Sansa’s soft (so fucking soft) hand in his. He’s so focused on that, in fact, that he barely registers their surroundings. Welldressed people and swanky decorating flimmer by as Sansa leads him forward. She hesitates on the threshold of the room, and Jon squeezes her hand, earning him a small smile. It doesn’t help his focusing. 

And then, they’ve arrived. It’s a huge room, chandeliers in the ceiling and panoramic windows revealing a gorgeous sunset over the Vale outside. It’s stocked full with people, dressed up and proper-looking, and the sound of dozens of people talking at the same time is overwhelming as they step into the room.

”You okay, Stark?” he leans forward to whisper in her ear, and a whiff of her perfume does something strange to his chest muscles.

She turns to look at him, piercing blue eyes laying his soul bare.

And in a low voice so as not to be overheard, she repeats the words from his text, months ago.

”Fuck Harry Hardyng. Let’s do this.”

* * *

”So”, says a Hardyng cousin Sansa has met only a time or two before, batting her eyelashes, ”how did you two meet?” 

They’ve been waiting for the question, of course, and Sansa glances at Jon, who meets her eyes. 

”Do you want to tell the story, darling, or shall I?” she says, and hopes he detects the humor in her voice. The absolute last thing she needs is for him to think she is _actually_ trying to fulfill her romantic fantasies with him as a pretend lover.

”You go ahead, since you tell it so well”, Jon says, without skipping a beat, matching her sugary sweet tone. Sansa can detect a hint of humor in his voice, but no one else in the group seems to be able to. Not for the first time today, Sansa is surprised at Jon’s acting abilities. Who knew he’d play the part so well? To her embarrassment, the hand he places on her back makes her shiver.

How can one hand be felt so much?

”Well”, she says, turning back to their company. ”We’ve known each other since childhood, actually …”

”Aw”, another Hardyng cousin, a man with an unusually large nose, cuts in.  
  
”… he’s been friends with my brother for forever. And we sort of admired each other from afar.” Despite her confident tone, Sansa can’t hold back a slight blush at the statement. _Admired from afar_ indeed _._

”That is so sweet!” chirps a woman in a purple dress who introduced herself as a ”very close family friend of Myranda’s”, whom Sansa has never heard of before.

”It wasn’t until I started working in his café that things started to fall into place”, Sansa says, hoping that they can’t hear that she’s rehearsed this line in her head. Jon’s hand on her lower back makes a little stroking motion, which has Sansa momentarily distracted. ”We started dating just a few weeks after that.”

”So you still work for him?” asks Mr Nose.

”I manage his café”, Sansa says, shooting Jon an infatuated smile which she finds worryingly easy to emulate. What is wrong with her tonight? First her embarrassing reactions to his touch, now she’s getting carried away with her own scheme. Well, Marg’s and Arya’s scheme, technically. Still.

”And how does that work?” asks another cousin, rather invasively. If this scenario was real, Sansa might have been offended. ”Working together and dating?”  


Jon clears his throat before Sansa has a chance to answer.

”It works better than we ever could have imagined”, Jon says in a serious voice. Sansa hopes she’s the only one who sees the twinkle in his eyes, and when he looks at her and discreetly rolls his eyes, she has to take a sip of champagne to hide her smile.

Glancing around the room, Sansa is once again overcome with the splendor of it. Twilight has settled in the Vale outside for true now, contrasting the warm glow inside. More and more people have arrived. Sansa truly hadn’t realized the scope of this wedding. There must be two hundred people in here, and this is only the rehearsal dinner. 

Sansa looks towards the Hardyngs holding court in the far right corner of the room. She and Jon did their duty and greeted and thanked Harry’s parents for the dinner invitation twenty minutes ago, and they had both seemed surprisingly happy to see her. They’d shaken Jon’s hand with unnerving enthusiasm and laughed when he’d promised them a free coffee should they ever find themselves in Wintertown - which was surprising considering how snobbish she remembered them as being. Sansa’d never thought they’d been much fond of her, despite her numerous attempts to charm them, and their warm way of greeting had been both odd and moving.

The bride and groom, however, had at the time not yet joined their wedding guests, and Sansa was embarrassingly relieved at not having to face them. They’re here now, of course. They arrived just ten minutes ago, fashionably late, to the spontaneous applause of the crowd. Sansa can spot them next to the Hardyngs, mingling their hearts out with their guests. Myranda looks lovely in an ebony jumpsuit. Even from this distance Sansa can hear her laugh, cutting through the chatter of the crowd. It makes Sansa’s heart ache a little. Myranda was always a breath of fresh air. There’s a part of Sansa that truly misses her.

She and Jon ought to go over and say hello, of course. Now that the dust seems to have settled a bit and the horde of relatives and friends have pulled back slightly from storming the wedding couple. Sansa places a hand on Jon’s (fuck! very muscular!) arm, to ask him if it’s maybe time to take the bull by the horns. Jon turns his head at her touch and looks at her, grey eyes surprisingly close, taking her in with an intensity that for a second leaves her lost for words. She blinks, but does not look away. The moment is so charged with something almost -

Almost -

(Is she breathing?)

She cannot hear the chatter in the room; she truly does not think of Harry nor Miranda; it’s all nuanced grey eyes and Jon, familiar and foreign all at once, and the smell of him and how _close_ he is …

(What is going on?)

And then there’s the clinking sound of metal against glass cutting through the room, and Sansa is so startled that she twitches, spilling a little champagne on her dress. (Margaery is going to murder her.) Jon takes a step back, and Sansa looks around. Thankfully, no one seems to have noticed their strange little moment. When she looks back at Jon, he does not meet her gaze. Instead he, along with the rest of the room, has turned towards Mr Hardyng far down in the corner, who’s the one calling for everyone’s attention.

Gradually, the room falls silent. Sansa’s heart is still beating treacherously fast as she attempts to get herself together. 

  
”Dinner”, the older man calls out, his voice surprisingly audible through the room, ”is served.”

* *

”So … how long have you two been dating?” asks Harry’s father’s buisness partner’s son.   
  
”Six months”, says Jon and Sansa in unison. Sansa bites back a laugh. They’re already professional scammers, huh?

”Wow”, says HFBPS loudly. He’s clearly already pretty drunk. ”Time to put a ring on it?”  
  
”In due time”, mutters Jon at her side.

”I proposed to Jenny here -” He gestures to an embarrassed-looking brunette at his side. ”- after only a couple of weeks. When you know, you know, right?”  
  
”Right”, says Jon, looking uncomfortable. Without thinking, Sansa puts a hand on his knee in reassurance. This makes him jump a little in his chair, bumping the table so that Sansa’s wine glass goes _Jurassic Park-_ y. Fast, as though she’s been burned, Sansa pulls her hand back, trying to stop her own embarrassment from showing. 

”I heard Harry proposed to Myranda after a month”, HFBPS carries on, blissfully unaware of the awkward emotional storm occuring right before him. Sansa, who’s raised her glass to have some wine, lowers it again with a hand that trembles slightly.

”Really?” she says, feeling Jon’s eyes on her, but refusing to look at him. HFBPS can’t know the effect his words have on her. After all, she introduced herself to him as an ’old friend of Myranda’s’. ”I didn’t know.”

”Well, he must’ve known the minute he met her”, says HFBPS, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulders. Sansa swallows.   


_Had_ Harry known the minute he met Myranda?

When _Sansa_ introduced them, during what she thought of as the golden era of hers and Harry’s relationship?

Sansa presses her lips together.

  
Jenny says something to her husband that steers the conversation in a different direction. Sansa leans back in her chair. Jon leans forward, and to Sansa’s absolute horror, her vision becomes slightly blurred. Really? _Really_? _Tears_ budding in this compromised position?

Jon places his hand on hers on the table, discreetly. 

”Fuck Harry Hardyng”, he says in a low voice.

Sansa huffs a laugh.

”Cheers to that.”

The clinking of their glasses is a strangely musical sound.

* *

The food is delicious, and the wine free-flowing, and Jon is an exemplary dinner partner. Once HFBPS has given up control of the conversation, Jon and Sansa enter into a surprisingly spirited discussion about life in the North contra the South, and the cultural differences, with Jenny and an old classmate’s of Myranda’s and his boyfriend. 

By the main course, Sansa is almost - though she dare not think it for fear of tempting fate - having fun, and when she glances at Jon, she thinks he feels the same. He doesn’t say as much as some of the others, but what he says is eloquent and witty. Sansa, slightly wine tipsy at this stage, feels such genuine happiness that he’s here with her. He looks at her, must have sensed her staring, and Sansa smiles at him. He smiles back, a small, almost teasing smile.

* *

When Edmund gets up to make a speech, Sansa knows it is going to be a shit show. 

Edmund’s one of Harry’s friends, though Sansa’s never quite understood why. Harry’s surprisingly had the good taste not to make him his best man, but since Harry had the less surprisingly bad taste of making him a groomsman anyway, Edmund must have seen an opportunity to get his time in the spotlight during the rehearsal dinner. 

The speech is so cringe-enducing Sansa has to physically fight the urge to hide her face in her hands. After a fumbling thank you to Harry’s parents for arranging the dinner, Edmund embarks on a tasteless verbal journey through Harry’s previous girlfriends, with rhymes so terrible and puke-worthy Sansa wants to laugh for all the wrong reasons. But about two verses in to Edmund’s not-at-all-worthy-of-being-called-a-poem, Sansa starts sweating.

The idea - to go through Harry’s exes one by one - is clear.

  
And Sansa knows all too well who’s name is at the bottom of the list.

Should she make a run for it? Go to the ladies’ room? But everyone would see her do it. Everyone would realize she’d escaped.   
  
It’s torture, to hear Edmund’s rhymes (”wits” and ”tits” among the more memorable ones), knowing what is about to happen.

And sure enough.

”After that he didn’t date much for a while, and everything seemed dark”, Edmund says into the mic, warming up. After an artsy pause that to Sansa is filled with sadistic glee, Edmund has the absolute guts to gesture towards her. Sansa’s stomach is in knots. As if from under water, she can hear Jon whisper ”bastard” under his breath beside her.

”But all that changed, of course, when he met Sansa Stark!”  
  
And Sansa can do nothing but sit there, mortified, as two hundred pairs of eyes land on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUN! lmao
> 
> thank you so fucking much as usual for your comments, you have no idea how much they mean to me ♥ hopefully the next chapter should be up soon!


	10. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens as Sansa tries to recover from the humiliating speech.

”And you’re sure you don’t want me to kill him?” asks Jon. Sansa shakes her head, clenching her jaw. 

They’re back in a corner of the ballroom, after a dreadfully awkward dessert during which no one at their table knew how to behave or what to say. Deep darkness has settled outside in the Vale, only fought by a few lights in the distance. The room is a little chilly and if Sansa dared she’d ask Jon for his jacket.

People have been passing her with smiles ranging from apologetic and pitying to teasing and downright sadistic. If Sansa ever had any chance of attending this wedding anonymously, Edmund has just robbed her of that. And any stubborn shred of dignity that might still have clung to her.

Jon has been quiet, seething, and the part of Sansa that isn’t having a mental breakdown is moved( _excited_ ) by him being so outraged on her behalf. It reminds her of Arya, a bit.She feels so bad for him now. He’s at a boring ass wedding with the laughing stock of the evening, a laughing stock who feels a lot like crying.

Steps, in their direction. When Sansa looks up, a gorgeous woman is approaching them, and Sansa automatically straightens her back.

”Hi”, the woman says, and places a familiar hand on Jon’s arm. Sansa feels like a cartoon character, her eyes bulging out of her skull. She glances at Jon at the same time the woman does.

”Oh! Sorry”, he mutters. ”Sansa, this is Val. We’re old friends. Val, this is Sansa, my … date.”

Sansa doesn’t notice his choice of words or tone of voice at all. At _all_. Nope.

”Sansa, hello”, Val says, shaking her hand, seemingly unfazed by the strange situation, that her ’old friend’ is here as Harry’s ex’s date. ”I’m so sorry about that speech, that was rough.”

  
”Thanks”,Sansa says and tries not to feel uncomfortable. She fails. Jon too is looking rather constipated. A group of women pass by behind Val, each one of them shooting Sansa a smile. Brilliant. 

  
”If it helps, Myranda has been ripping him a new one since dinner”, Val assures her, earnest eyes meeting Sansa’s. ’Old friend’. What does ’old friend’ mean?

”Oh, that’s good to hear”, Sansa says and smiles. Jon still has that deer in headlights look. Do they want her to leave? Should she excuse herself? She looks around the crowded ballroom. There’s nowhere to go that doesn’t involve humiliating conversations. ”So, how do you know the happy couple?” she asks after a few seconds of awkward silence, hoping it doesn’t come off standoffish.

”I’m a bridesmaid, actually”, Val says. ”Myranda’s my friend from college.”

”Oh, that’s great”, Sansa says and smiles. Her cheeks hurt. ”What a small world, huh? It’s crazy that you and Jon know each other.” To her own surprise, there’s an edge to her voice that she hopes they can not hear.

”Right?” Val says. She begins another sentence, but interrupts herself and gestures towards the entrance to the room. Sansa sees the bride, now joining her guests, followed by a grumpy-looking Harry and a sheepish Edmund. ”Looks like he’s had a stern talking to.”

Sansa smiles again and is just about to change the subject, when to her horror, she makes eye contact with Myranda. Her former friend is staring directly at her, making a gesture she can’t ignore. _Come here._ Shit. Sansa’s heart’s back in her throat in a second. 

”Uhm, I better go”, says Sansa. ”Excuse me, it was lovely to meet you”, she mumbles, aware that she’s acting strangely. She can feel Jon’s and Val’s eyes upon her as she leaves them behind, and begins making her way through the crowd.

* *

Jon watches Sansa go and knows that he’s doing a terrible job being a supportive fake boyfriend. Sansa’s back looks lonely, strangely vulnerable, as she walks through the crowd, towards Myranda and asshat #1 and #2.

”Maybe I should have gone with her”, Jon mutters under his breath.

”She looks like she can handle herself”, Val says, a hint of amusement in her tone, nodding towards Sansa, who has reached her destination. And indeed; Sansa smiles, greeting Myranda with grace. Jon watches sullenly as Myranda gestures towards Edmund, who begins saying something.

”So”, says Val. ”How long have you two been dating?”

”We’re not really dating.” The statement is a reflex response, and he freezes. An interested glint in Val’s eyes.

”No?” she says and seems genuinely surprised. ”You weren’t one for a casual hook up, as far as I remember.” He can hear the teasing in her voice, and the situation strikes him as spectacularly ironic. He hesitates for a long while.

The cover story is of course well thought out - he could bring Val through every step of his and Sansa’s fictional work place romance - but this situation feels quite different from the earlier times tonight he’s had to recount it. This isn’t some Hardyng stranger asking. It’s Val, someone he knows and respects. Who knows _him,_ outside this horrifying wedding bubble.

To tell _Val_ that Sansa is his girlfriend feels more fraudulent and wrong than telling the whole room, simply because it feels significant and more important. To lie to the likes of Harry fucking Hardyng as a favor to Sansa? No problem. To tell Val the same story? It feels as though that would be truly deceitful, as if he’s taking unearned liberties with Sansa, taking their low-risk, unimportant pretend story into the real world, in a way. _Just as like … a platonic thing, like a fun, pretend thing. Like a … date, but like a fake date. Like a … ’pretend to be my boyfriend’ thing._

Val looks at him with curiosity and bemusement in her icy eyes. Jon glances at Sansa in the opposite end of the room again. She is smiling, visible to him in profile, and if he didn’t know how upset she was right now, he’d have thought she was having the time of her life. 

He turns back to Val.

”It’s - don’t tell anyone, but I’m just here as a favor. We’re not together.”

* * *

Sansa isn’t sure what to expect as she approaches Myranda. What does she say? How does she act? The room around them fades, the chatter dulled and the people blurry, and Sansa can only see Myranda ahead of her, waiting for her, with Harry on one side and Edmund on the other.

She should have remembered just how little of a beat-around-the-bush-person Myranda truly was.

”Sansa”, she says, stepping forward to award a hug to a startled Sansa. Myranda is more than a head shorter than her, but her energy makes her seem much taller. ”I’m so glad you’re here. Wasn’t too sure you would come, but I wanted to give it a shot.”

”Yeah … uhm …” As it always used to be with Myranda, Sansa is both impressed, jealous and made uncomfortable by the frankness. ”I’m glad to have been invited. Congratulations, of course. To both of you.” She hopes she doesn’t sound bitter.

”Hello, Sansa”, says a visibly uncomfortable Harry. Sansa stares at him. He doesn’t make any move to greet her, and Sansa glances at Myranda. Does she know her husband-to-be came to Sansa’s hotel room? 

Sansa mumbles an echoed greeting.

”Edmund”, Sansa lastly acknowledges, because Harry’s groomsman doesn’t seem to eager to initiate conversation. ”What an … exciting speech.”

”I believe Edmund has something to say to you about that”, Myranda says, giving the man in question a pointed look. Edmund looks even more uncomfortable. Sansa doesn’t blame him - Myranda can be quite intimidating.

”Yes”, says Edmund, and it comes out hoarse. ”I’m … so sorry for calling you out in my s… sch … speech like that. No harm intended.”

”It’s quite alright”, says Sansa, eager to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible. ”Maybe try and refrain from rhyming _redhead_ and _unwed_ next time, though.” Harry flinches. Edmund merely stares at her. Myranda snorts.

”Well …” says Edmund. ”I’m sorry.”  
  
”It’s alright, Ed. Say hi to Susan for me.” Sansa manages a smile.

”We broke up”, he says with a stoney expression. 

_Jeez, I wonder why._

”Oh, I’m sorry to hear that”, she says. ”Well, plenty of fish.” 

”Well, now that that’s over with”, Myranda quickly says, swooping in, ”why don’t you lot run along. I want to talk to Sansa.”

_This can’t be good._

To Sansa’s surprise, Harry immediately does as he’s asked, leaning in to kiss Myranda’s cheek, before he - with a curt nod in Sansa’s direction - begins to guide Edmund through the crowd.   


And Sansa is left alone with Myranda.

* *

”So how’s the South treating you?” Jon asks Val, and he can feel himself beginning to relax a little. Of course, he is still ultra aware of Sansa across the room - she’s talking to the bride on her own now - but of all the people at this godforsaken wedding, at least Val is someone he likes. And he’s genuinely interested in what she’s been up to.

She’s just as he remembers.

”Not very well, actually”, Val says flatly.

”How so?”  
  
”It was a great experience, and all, going south for uni. I don’t regret it at all …” she says, looking at him with a hard to read expression. Someone bumps into Jon from behind, making him take a step closer to her. She doesn’t inch away. 

”But?”

”I don’t want to be stuck down south forever” she says with a shrug .”In my line of work the best action is up there. Plus, you know me. I’m a Northerner at heart.”  
  
So simple a statement.

”Maybe you ought to think about moving back up”, Jon says, and he can hear it sounds more suggestive than he intended. She doesn’t seem fazed by it.

”I am, actually.”

”You’re thinking about it or you’re moving back up?”

”Moving this November. Got a job right beyond the Wall. Northern Wildlife Preservation Bureau.”

”Wow”, he says. ”Congratulations.”

An awkward pause. He doesn’t quite know how he’s feeling. Sansa’s still talking to Myranda. ”Well, if you need caffeine, you know which café to stop by.”  
  
Val’s eyes crinkle when she smiles.

* *

”This must be so strange for you”, Myranda says, tucking a brown curl behind her ear.

”It is”, Sansa admits, her head spinning. Is this truly happening right now? Is she really having some sort of heartfelt conversation with Randa Royce?

”Well, if it helps, it’s not so un-strange for me either”, Myranda says. ”I’ve had several people call me Sansa by accident already. And we don’t even look alike.”  
  
Sansa doesn’t quite know what to say, so she just smiles again.

”Well, it’s been so long”, Myranda says, smiling as well, as though they’re old acquaintances with no particular dark history. 

_Hardly my fault, though, is it,_ Sansa can’t stop herself from bitterly thinking. ”Tell me everything that has been happening! You’re here with someone, right?”

”I am”, Sansa says, having trouble keeping up with the twists and turns of the evening. The dizzy surreal feeling intensifies. ”It’s … my boyfriend, Jon. Jon Snow?”

”No way”, Myranda says, placing a hand on her upper arm which Sansa has to fight not to dodge. ” _You’re_ the one who brought Jon Snow? Val’s been speculating all afternoon who’s date he was.”  
  
”Really?” Sansa says, hearing herself sound less amused than Myranda. 

”Yeah! So strange, that they both ended up here. I’ve never met this mystery Jon Snow before, though. You’re going to have to point him out to me.”

”He’s chatting with Val right now, actually”, Sansa says, turning to gesture in Jon’s direction. Once she does, both she and Myranda freeze.

Jon and Val are chatting indeed, and even at this distance, one can clearly see how at ease they are around each other. Val is smiling at something Jon is saying. He’s talking engagedly, in that passionate way he only does when he’s speaking of something that matters. Val nods, seeming to agree with him. They’re standing a little too close to each other. There’s a lump in Sansa’s throat and a pit in her stomach as she sees Val put a hand on Jon’s arm and Sansa feels -

She feels -

Oh.

Oh shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH. I hate writing dialogue and this chapter was basically all dialogue. I can't even look at it anymore. Anyway, hope it wasn't as bad as I think it was lmao, and thanks as always so fucking much for your support and comments! 
> 
> The next chapter is partially written already, so I hope to have that up soon. Lots of dialogue there too, I'm afraid - but this time it's at least between Jon and Sansa themselves lmao


	11. Good Night's Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions run high as Jon and Sansa are alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What follows is a long author’s note regarding the response to the last chapter. Feel free to skip it if you wish - the story progresses as planned beneath it.
> 
> I have to say I was very surprised, disappointed and disheartened by the response to the last chapter.
> 
> I understand the plot was interpreted in ways I did not intend, and I think/hope this will clear up as the story progresses. Jon’s actions were, as I thought was made clear but now understand did not come across to many readers, not at all maliciously intended, and of course stemmed from the same character arch/interpretation of Jon’s character as I have used for this entire story. 
> 
> While this is and will continue to be a fluffy rom-com-esque story, it is going to contain conflict, as any longer plot does, and some angst. (I’m not normally this defensive I swear lmao, but since many commenters seemed confused/upset I wanted to address the issue directly.)
> 
> That being said. You are of course as a reader entitled to think my writing is utter garbage, but I felt some of the comments made were disrespectful and cruel. I write this story simply for fun, as a break from my other writing. No matter how valid you think your criticism may be, I hope I am not naïve or arrogant in my request for you to kindly keep negative comments to yourself in the future. If displeased, I’ll respectfully recommend reading something else - the Jonsa community is creative, diverse and has a lot to offer.
> 
> I don’t moderate comments and will not start now either. I’m just genuinely quite downcast at the harshness of some of the comments. 
> 
> So. There were a few hours there where I considered taking the fic down, or discontinuing it. However, I’ve decided - at least for the time being - to continue writing. To readers old and new who want to stick with me - let’s do this.
> 
> (I also want to wholeheartedly thank the supportive commenters, which brightened my day.)

He doesn’t see her as she comes towards them. 

All of a sudden Sansa just appears by his side, and Jon is so startled by her sudden appearance it takes him a second or two to see how stern her expression is. She musters a smile at Val, but does not look at Jon. Val, sensing the tension, quickly jumps into the conversation of a nearby group, leaving Sansa and Jon alone facing each other in the middle of the busy room. 

Something akin to grief in her eyes, Sansa looks so fragile, and it hits Jon like a blow. A sudden urge to take care of her - to take her hand and lead her out of the room and never look back. 

But there’s a distance in the way she’s standing, slightly inching away from him. The air between them is vibrating with something he can’t quite read. Jon hesitates, taken aback.

”I’m going to bed.” She says it softly, and the sound is nearly drowned out by the crowd around them. He leans in a little, unsure what to do.

”Should I … come with you?” he says, hoping it doesn’t come off as a scandalous suggestion.

”I don’t care either way. Do as you please”, Sansa says, and for her that’s quite harsh. Jon doesn’t have time to react before she turns on her heels, beginning to make her way through the crowd, politely apologizing when she inevitably bumps into someone. Always so well-mannered.

Jon doesn’t hesitate before going after her, feeling Val’s eyes on his back as he follows Sansa’s complicated trail, zigzagging between groups and couples chatting. He puts his glass on a waiter’s tray while walking. An older lady passes before him, and he has to pause for a few seconds. Enough to cause him to lose sight of Sansa as she disappears through the door to the lobby. 

* *

The elevator doors are just about to close when a hand waves in between them, making them slide open. Jon looks disheveled on the other side of the doors, and more than a little confused.

”Hey, Stark”, he says quite hoarsely, seeming a little out of breath. Sansa not-so-discreetly presses the elevator button again, but the doors stubbornly refuse to close. ”What the hell is the matter?” 

”Nothing’s the matter”, Sansa says through gritted teeth, determined to keep her voice even. She doesn’t plan on saying anything else at all, but it might be the wine or the strange occassion or the emotions having run so high all day. No matter why, she continues, at least managing to keep her voice low. It comes out more a hiss than anything. ”Just … it might be slightly unbelievable that you’re my boyfriend if you keep flirting with other people. Just a thought.”

She can hear how childish she sounds, and in desperation she presses the button again. Jon, when she dares a look at him, seems genuinely flabbergasted at her statement. Is he surprised that she’s jealous? As long as he doesn’t pity her. She can take anything but his pity.

”What the fuck are you talking about?” Jon says, matching her low voice. A loud laughter echoes through the lobby behind him. Sansa bites her lip and pretends like she can’t feel tears pricking. Will this day never end?

* * *

”Nothing”, she says, and he can hear her voice tremble. ”I’m sorry. I’m going up to the room.”

She _apologizes_. It’s gutwrenching, and guilt blooms in his belly.

”I’ll go with you”, he says, stepping into the elevator.

His mind is in overdrive trying to find the right words. She doesn’t say anything, but horrified he realizes with a glance that she’s on the verge of tears.

The low sound of the elevator is all that can be heard.

He’d thought it was Hardyng, having done something to upset her. Or that Myranda. Or maybe even the shithead that held the speech. To know that _he_ is the one to have upset her is horrifying.

”Stark”, he tries. ”You know I was just …”

”Let’s forget about it.” She cuts him off cooly as the elevator door slides open, heading for the door to their room while digging through her clutch for their room key. He gets his from his pocket and opens the door for her. Not one glance is awarded to him as she steps over the threshold, a whiff of her perfume hitting him as she passes.

”Not if you’re still pissed about it, we can’t”, he says, following her inside, slamming the door shut.

”I was just _saying”_ , says Sansa, more agitated now that they’re in private, taking off her jewelry, ”it got a little _awkward -_ ” One earring is gently placed on the nightstand despite her obvious anger. ”- telling Myranda about how happy I was with my supposed _boyfriend_ \- ” The other one follows, now with a more forceful slam against the wood. ”- when said boyfriend was chatting up one of her _bridesmaids_.”

* * 

”Stark, I …” he begins again, seeming genuinely horrified, and somehow it’s all made worse by his remorse. Sansa wills herself not to cry, rage and devastation and a jealousy that’s akin to them both battling inside her. He steps up to her, grey eyes sincere. Sansa panics.

”I don’t give a shit who you flirt with, Jon …” she spits.

”Really, Stark?” he says, and there’s an underlying tone to the words that gives her pause. Still deep and hoarse, there’s an edge to his voice now. It seems to fill the room, and without thinking, Sansa takes a microscopic step towards him. ”You don’t give a shit?” he says softly. He’s so close she can feel the words like a whisper against her skin.

She stares into his eyes, anger and confusion and something else that she doesn’t dare name boiling just beneath her surface. She tilts her head and for a second it’s almost like they’re going to -

almost as if -

”I’m going to bed”, she blurts out, pulling back, and the spell is broken. Jon, looking dazed, blinks. Sansa turns away, walking over to the armchair in the corner, on which she’s placed her nightgown. To her frustration, her zip in the back proves almost impossible to reach, and once she does reach it it won’t budge, no matter how much she struggles. When she does a strange little halfjump while trying a new grip, she hears Jon turn back around towards her.

”For fucks sake, Stark”, he mutters. ”Let me.”

She doesn’t respond, but after a few seconds she gathers her hair in one hand and lowers her shoulders for him to have better access. He steps up and quickly, professionally, gets the zip down.

”Thanks”, she says, gathering up her things, disappearing into the bathroom.

When she emerges fifteen minutes later, she is almost hoping that he’s gone back downstairs, or perhaps fallen asleep. Anything to avoid another awkward confrontation. But of course, he’s still there, seated on the bed. He looks up as she comes out, a sheepish expression on his face.

”Stark…” he begins again. She’s lost count of how many times he’s called her that tonight. It agitates her now, in it’s stiff formality. As if she’s nothing more to him than a connection to her family. _Stark._

She walks up to the bed, claiming the side of the bed opposite to him. It happens to be her preferred bedside. Stupid coincidence. Sansa doesn’t look at Jon as she slips under the covers, turning off the light at her side of the bed.

Her father always used to say there isn’t a problem in the world that doesn’t look better after a good night’s sleep.

”Let’s just sleep, Jon.” It's a whisper in the dimness. They are hollow words, and strangely commonplace for such an extraordinary day. 

Shuffling from Jon’s side, the bed shifts as he lays down. Then the click of the lights and they’re plunged into darkness. 

Is she imagining it? 

Or can she feel his warmth even through the covers, at this distance?

”Goodnight, Jon”, she whispers, merely because it feels strange to not say anything more.

”Goodnight, Stark”, comes in return in the dark.


	12. Ray of Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon both seek advice from home as the wedding ceremony approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a-me! It's 4 AM here and I have edited this chapter sooo poorly! I'm sorry! Sleep deprivation! 
> 
> Also, I've obviously not written for this fic for a loooooong while now, for multiple reasons, mainly because it's been a LOT lately, but I want to (very belatedly) from the bottom of my heart thank all of you who left supportive comments on the last chapter! as usual I'm bad at replying but I read and appreciate each and every kind word.
> 
> As for future updates ... I'll try my best! *wink wink*
> 
> (yes I need to go to bed now)

The sun is beating down through the windows as Sansa slowly returns to the world of the concious. Her eyes open, blinking in the bright light. A vague sense of discomfort remains, but it takes her a few moments to remember the source. She turns her head, in a horror movie-esque manner, as if she’s expecting a corpse next to her in the bed. But reality, of course, turns out to be more anticlimactic. Jon’s side of the bed is empty.

When she calls out his name, her voice hoarse and sleep-drenched, there is no reply.

* *

It’s a sunny day in the Vale, and Jon’s disproportionally bitter about that. Naturally, the gods smile on Harry fucking Hardyng. Couldn’t have asked for better weather. Fuck that.

Jon’s taking what someone who did not know him might call a ”pleasant morning stroll”, but in reality he’s more … _stalking_. The gorgeous nature around him does little to improve his mood, though he’s glad for the fresh air.

Jon’s not quite sure how to feel about the previous evening. In the hard light of day it seems to him a trainwreck of epic proportions, and there’s a knot of confusion and guilt in his stomach that he is not sure how to go about untangling.

He keeps remembering the way Sansa looked last night, so vulnerable and distraught. He clenches his fist. 

His phone, dangerously close to falling out of his front pocket, vibrates, startling him. Muttering a curse, he gets the damn thing out, and as he squints to read the name on the display in the sunlight, his heart sinks.

It’s not Sansa. 

It is, however, her sister.

For a few seconds, he debates not picking up at all. The idea of speaking to someone right now isn’t mighty appealing, and certainly not someone who is acutely interested in the events of last night in general, and perhaps his behavior in particular.

But then again, it’s _Arya_. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever ignored Arya’s calls.

”Hello?” he says, just as the trail he’s been following begins to tilt a little uphill.

”Snow!” Arya greets him, and he can practically hear her grin. 

”Hey, Arya”, he mumbles, and he can hear himself sounding like a five year old being forced to talk to their grandpa on the phone. ”What’s going on?”

”Over here? Well”, she says on the phone, and Jon picks up the pace a bit on the trail, attempting to literally outrun his anxiety, ”we suspect Rickon may have a secret girlfriend. We have nothing but a name and an accidental wrong number text so far. Bran and I tried internet stalking her, but because …”

”Arya”, Jon interrupts her, and he’s so surprised at his own outburst that he stops dead in his tracks on the trail. ”I think I’ve fucked up.”

”No surprises there, Snow”, Arya says affectionately. ”What’d you do this time?”

”I … I …” He searches for the right words. Scrambles for them, really. Looks out over the hills, over a sunlit Vale. But he can’t find them. Doesn’t know what to say. 

”Jon”, Arya says, and her tone is gentler now, he can picture the concerned crease in her brow. ”Tell me everything.”

* *

  
Sansa has a few options, but neither of them seem appealing at the moment. 

She can go down to the hotel brunch buffé. Run into thirteen thousand billion old acquaintances who will sideye/pity/speak to her about forbidden topics such as That Speech and ask where her date is. Pass. She can call Jon to ask where he is, and continue on her glorious path to becoming Clingiest Fake Girlfriend of the Year. Pass. She can stay here and wait for him to come back. Pass.

She can jump out the window and hitchhike somewhere where no one knows her name.

Hm.

Tempting.

But pass.

She feels like she’s on one of those game shows, the wheel is spinning, and no matter where it stops, the end result is going to be awful, dreadful, horrible, horrifying.

In the end, Sansa decides on a life line.

Margaery picks up after only a few signals.

* *

He knocks on the door.

He has the key card, and there’s a chance she might be sleeping. But he decides to knock. He can hear her approaching the door. She’s talking to someone, in a low voice, Jon barely registers before she opens the door and he blinks and -

there she is.

Her hair is more unruly than he’s ever seen it, and she’s wearing a silky robe, but other than that he’s struck by how normal she looks. A little tired, maybe, a little jaded, but it’s Sansa, the same Sansa he’s met a million times before. There’s a nervous jolt through him at the sight of her. 

”Uhm, I have to go, Marg”, she says into the phone she’s holding to her ear, as she steps aside and gestures for him to enter. He internally lets out a sigh of relief, and steps over the threshold. 

”Yeah. I will. Later. Bye.” Sansa hangs up the phone, and turns towards him where he stands by the door. She’s a silhouette against the sunlight from the window.

There’s a beat of silence. He can feel the tension pulsing through the room.

”Jon, I -” she begins at the exact same time he says ”Stark -”

They both pause, and perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but to Jon the air seems a little easer to breathe after that.

Sansa gestures to the bed.

”Let’s sit down and have a chat.”  
  
* * *  
  
They sit on the bed, each facing forward, glancing nervously at the other. It’s like a middle school romance, Sansa thinks, and the thought nearly makes her snort a laugh in spite of it all.  


”I called Marg”, she says, not knowing quite where she’s going with that opener.

”I called Arya”, Jon confesses.

  
”Really? What’d you tell her?” Sansa asks, out of morbid curiosity. This is, of course, the issue with the two of them being close to the same people. Everything is an echo chamber. Her family is going to wind up knowing everything about this debacle, one way or the other. It’s just a question of which one of her and Jon is going to crack first.

”I … wanted her advice, I guess”, he says, fidgeting with his hands. ”On … what went down.”

Great. Sansa senses Arya is going to have a lot to say to her as well.

”And what did she say?” Sansa inquires.

”Well … she explained to me what I had suspected myself.” Jon is still looking down. Sansa reties the knot on her robe to have something to occupy herself with.

”Which was?”

”That I’ve been an asshole.”

Sansa’s eyes dart back to his face in surprise, and he finally meets her gaze, grey eyes humble but steady. 

”Arya said that?”

”I believe the phrase she used was ”acting like a complete and utter fucking dickhead”, but in essence, yes.”

  
”Huh. She usually takes your side.” Sansa says in an attempt to sound casual. She swallows. There is hurt in her stomach, the dust from last night kicked up, but there is something else, too. Relief, perhaps. She knows what’s coming next.

”Stark. I fucked up. I’m sorry. I didn’t … realize how it was coming across …” His voice is earnest, thick. It makes her want to close her eyes, even now. 

”… which part?”

”All of it. The talking to Val part. The throwing you to the wolves part. The being a jerk in our, ehm, argument last night.” He runs a hand through his hair.

”Oh.” Sansa bites her lip. She knows what he’s talking about. He’s apologizing for what almost -

almost -

happened.

”I swear to be on my best behavior from now on. Strict boyfriend duty. I’ve been an awful fake boyfriend so far … and if you need to fake dump me, I completely understand.”

”No.” She lets out a sigh, a deep breath, and it feels so good she does it again. Inhale. Exhale. She can feel his eyes on her. When she looks up he appears almost shy. ”It’s fine, Jon. Really.”

”Truly?”

”It’s … tensions are running high. Honestly, I’m sorry I ever dragged you here. This has been … a lot.” She purposely does not mention Val, does not address the elephant in the room, does not specify what she means. Sansa has no right to ask about Val. 

Who is she?

Does he -

”Agreed”, is all he says. She can see in his eyes that there are things that he isn’t mentioning, as well, things that he’s thinking.

But Sansa doesn’t ask. 

”Fake lovers reunited?” she says lightly, and extends a hand.

He shakes it, slowly.

There’s silence. Not tense, now, but rather relieved, exhausted silence. 

They sit there, for a while, side by side on the bed. Sansa almost wants to laugh at the situation, the many layers of absurdity. The sun shines on them from the back through the large window, and Sansa knows her hair is aflame. It goes golden in the sunlight.Jon clears his throat.

Then Sansa does something that surprises them both.

A head tilted to the side. She rests it on his shoulder, gently placing it and then slowly relaxing. She can feel him tense up for a second, and she’s almost about to pull back when -

Jon exhales, a long, shaky breath, and the tension in his shoulder fades.

And then a second later - an arm around her.

There’s a feeling in Sansa’s stomach she doesn’t quite know how to decipher. It’s turning around at the airport because your lover’s called your name. It’s starting the engine and going some place new. It’s being on a trampoline and feeling terrified and free.

They sit for a while. 

Breathing. 

Sansa’s eyes flutter close.

She’s unsure how much time has passed - could be a minute, could be twenty - when Jon speaks again. She can feel the rumble of his chest when he talks. The world has soft edges. It feels like she’s dreaming.

”Uhm, Sansa”, Jon says, and there’s a nervous streak in his voice. ”Do you know what time it is?”

Sansa opens her eyes, sitting up straight in a jerky motion.

”Shit! We have to get ready!”

* * *

”You almost done?” Jon calls out, and Sansa meets her own eyes in the bathroom mirror. Swallowing, she adjusts her dress one last time. She has to hand it to Margaery. Even though Sansa might die this evening, she will do so in a gorgeous dress. 

The church ceremony is approaching rapidly, and Sansa both wants it over with and wants to delay it for a hundred years. Time’s going by so very rapidly and it’s show time and there’s a part of Sansa that still, after all the hurdles already jumped, wants to do a runner.

”Yeah, I’m coming!” she says in what she hopes is a cheerful tone. Cheerful, yes, that should be the tone of the rest of the day. Lighthearted. Emotionally easy to handle.

Yeah, right. That won’t be difficult. At all. 

Sansa rubs her temples, not breaking eye contact with herself.

She allows herself three deep breaths.

Then she opens the door.


End file.
